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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26190355">I’m Kyle and This is my Voice One Week on Testosterone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosy_Little_Crow/pseuds/Cosy_Little_Crow'>Cosy_Little_Crow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>South Park</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Background Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger, Character Development, Cheating, Depressed Stan Marsh, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, FTM, Ftm Kyle Broflovski, Gender Dysphoria, Guilt, HRT, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Needles, Negative Body Image, Trans Kyle Broflovski, Underage Substance Use, background Creek, triggering content, very mild dubcon in one ch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:02:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>127</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26190355</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosy_Little_Crow/pseuds/Cosy_Little_Crow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyle is trans. Stan is in love. Things are complicated as Kyle starts  testosterone, celebrates his 18th birthday, Prepares for college in the fall, and everyone begins their last summer together. </p><p>These little micro chapters will eventually be compressed and worked into a larger story my bff and I are writing together but for now they live here. I write each Kyle PoV and my bff writes for Stan’s PoV. Not beta read...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Today was supposed to be a good day. My birthday was coming up, so mom had finally <em>finally </em>decided I could set an appointment for my hrt consultation and bloodwork. Of course she insisted on going, but I wasn’t going to let that ruin my mood. I was finally about to start my life for real. Even Stan oscillating between cynicism and excitement over it wasn’t bringing my mood down.</p><p>The appointment was supposed to be easy. Just bloodwork, maybe an average physical. Normal stuff. It seemed weird that they asked mom to wait in the waiting room, but I thought maybe it was because I’m almost 18 or because they wanted to ask about drugs and STIs. I wasn’t prepared for the paper gown and sheet the nurse handed me, telling me to put it on and cover up. </p><p>
  <strong>No. </strong>
  <em>Holy</em>
  <em> shit, this isn’t happening.</em>
</p><p>My hands were shaking as I slipped out of my flannel, then my shirt and tossed them to the guest chair. I slipped the gown on with the back facing front over my binder. No way was I taking it off if I had any other choice. Pants and boxers came next. I kicked them down to my ankles and tossed them to the chair, covering up with the paper sheet and swallowing back the building nausea.</p><p>I was pretty sure I was going to puke when my phone went off, buzzing several times in a row.</p><p>Stan: Hey.</p><p>Stan: How’s the appointment going?</p><p>Stan: Has your mom started freaking out yet?</p><p>Kyle: It’s fine, Jesus!</p><p>Stan: It doesn’t sound fine.</p><p>Stan: Did something happen?</p><p>Kyle: Dude, I said it’s fine!</p><p>Kyle: Let it go, Stan.</p><p>Stan: If you say so.</p><p>I was typing an apology when the doctor knocked on the door, so I erased it and sent one more quick text. I’d apologize in person. Besides, I had a feeling that tonight was going to be rough and I needed a distraction.</p><p>Kyle: You’re sleeping over.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">Later</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Mom chatters incessantly about the risks the dr mentioned and how this is permanent but I can’t work up a response. I feel more violated than that time Cartman grabbed my junk in fourth grade. The humiliation of struggling out of my binder, man tits flopping out across my chest. I can still feel the “breast exam” and the doctors cold fingers digging into the disgusting flaps of fat and tissue I work so hard to conceal every day. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.</p><p>They had to do a Pap test, so I got to continue the humiliation by putting my feet in stirrups like they use for pregnant women on tv and by crying while they shoved a cold, slimy, plastic speculum inside to wrench me open. It hurt. Still hurts and cramps and I just know there’s going to be blood.</p><p>My only consolation is that this turned out to be more than just a consultation. I actually got my prescription! Mom freaked. </p><p>I want to go home, but after the pharmacy mom insists we go eat something. I pick at a chicken strip meal for almost an hour while she eats and talks and nags at me to eat more. All I can think about is the ache in my crotch, that little vial, and if it’s going to be worth what I had to go through to get it.</p><p>We pull up in front of the house and there’s a weird glow coming from the far corner of the porch. My stomach churns, the two chicken strips I forced down not sitting well. The headlights flash across the porch as mom pulls into the driveway and I catch a familiar flash of blue and red.</p><p>Stan. Oh fuck!</p><p>What the fuck is Stan doing here? I told him we would hang out, sure, but he was supposed to <em>wait</em> for my text. Now I have to let him in even though I just want to sleep. No, what I really want is a hot shower, hot enough to wash the feeling of being “examined” away, but there’s no way I’m getting naked tonight.</p><p>We pull to a stop and I grab my leftovers and my prescription bag with my meds, sharps container, and syringes and slam the car door behind me.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was cold. <em>Fuck </em>it was cold. Why the hell was it so cold in May? And what the fuck was taking them so long? Kyle's appointment was over hours ago, the sun had dipped far past the horizon, and the only light left was a little sliver, turning the sky a dark purple. I shivered so violently my teeth chattered.</p><p>Should I have relented and just gone back to my house? Probably. But instead I scrolled up through Kyle's texts for the millionth time.</p><p>Kyle: You're sleeping over.<br/>3:52PM</p><p>Kyle: I'm out. Gotta pick up meds.<br/>5:26PM</p><p>It was 7:48 now. Almost 2 and a half hours later. How long did it take to fill a fucking prescription?</p><p>Just as I was thinking that for the hundredth time, I saw a familiar silhouette and lights turning into the driveway. I waited until the car had turned off and both the drivers side and the passenger side door had opened to stand up. When Kyle was in earshot I asked, "Hey... how'd it go?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey, how’d it go?”</p><p><em>How do you think it fucking went? </em>I want to spit back. I really shouldn’t be around people right now. I almost tell him to go home, when I realize that he’s shaking a little, teeth chattering together every so often.</p><p>Mom steps around us, unlocking the door.</p><p>“Come on boys.”</p><p>I sigh and shove into Stan with my shoulder since my hands are full.</p><p>“Get inside idiot, before you fucking freeze to death.”</p><p>It comes out harsher than I want and his face falls a bit. I should feel bad, and I do, but it’s his fault. If he had just waited for me to text this wouldn’t be happening.</p><p>I bring the takeout box up with me, figuring that Stan has to be starving by now, and I hope that if I have something he wants, he’ll give me what I’m about to ask for.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As soon as we get up to his room, Kyle shoves his takeout box at me. Which I obviously take. I'd be lying if I didnt say eagerly. I couldn't remember if I had eaten at all that day, but now that food was in front of me, I realized I was starving.</p><p>I sat at his desk, opting against eating on the bed like I would do in my own room. Kyle didnt like to sleep with crumbs, and who could blame him for that.</p><p>"I'm taking this as you don't want to talk about it. When is your first dose?" I opened the box. Chicken tenders and fries. Really, Kyle?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As bad of a mood as I’m in, the way Stan practically snatches the box out of my hands and digs in makes me laugh a little. He doesn’t even go warm it up. Dumbass probably forgot to eat today.</p><p>At least he remembered not to eat in my bed this time. Between shoving several fries in his mouth at once, he speaks.</p><p>"I'm taking this as you don't want to talk about it. When is your first dose?"</p><p>The truth is I should have let them do my first dose in the office. I’m nauseous, palms sweating, heart pounding uncomfortably at the mention of my shot. I’m too anxious and grumpy for this.</p><p>There’s no way I won’t tense up and cause problems if I can’t chill out. I need something to make me relax, or take the edge off anyway. </p><p>“Right now? As soon as I can psych myself up enough anyway. They said I have to relax the muscles or I’ll just push some of the stuff back out when the muscle tenses and contracts. Or it’ll hurt a lot more...”</p><p>”Stan?”</p><p>Here goes nothing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As soon as I asked the question, he cast his gaze downward and the fraction of a smile disappeared too. <em>Shit</em>. I was always saying something wrong.</p><p>"Right now?" His voice is hesitant, heavy. "As soon as I can psych myself up enough anyway. They said I have to relax the muscles or I'll just push some of the stuff back out when the muscle tenses and contracts."</p><p>Relax, huh? Almost involuntarily my fingers find the flask I always keep in my pocket. If its relaxation he needed, I had the perfect answer. But knowing Kyle, he probably wouldn't like it.</p><p>"Stan?"</p><p>My eyes met his again, and I answered automatically, "Kyle?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I open my mouth to ask him for his flask. I can see him fiddling with it in his pocket. I’ve found it in the crumpled heap of his jacket or pants on the floor more than once so I know it’s definitely there. He has to know what I’m going to ask. The quirk to his mouth and furrow of his eyebrows where his hat has slipped up make it obvious enough.</p><p>The little fucker is going to make me<em> ask</em>. I don’t have the patience. Even with my short legs I stand and cross the room in two quick strides. I lean across the back of my desk chair, shoving down on his shoulder a bit while I reach around to stick my hand in his pocket.</p><p>My hand slides against his, softer than I’d have thought. My clammy fingers touch skin-warmed metal, but Stan doesn’t let me take it from him.</p><p>“Come on, give it to me, Stan.”</p><p>I realize as I’m saying them how the words sound, but once it’s out I can’t do anything about it. My cheeks and ears feel hot and I’m yanking my hand away from the flask and Stan’s hand.</p><p>“Whatever man. I’ll just get something from Kenny.”</p><p>I <em>know</em> I sound petulant as I flop down onto my bed, groping for my phone, but I can’t help it. I just want to stop feeling like this.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Instead of saying anything, he just looks at me. His eyes flick down to my pocket where I'm still fiddling with the flask. He... <em>was that what he was going to ask for?</em> I didn't even realize he knew it was there.</p><p>I was trying to get my mouth to form the words "you want some?" When he was up and across the room in two fluid motions. The next thing I knew, he was sidled up behind me, applying pressure to my still sore shoulder - someone had dislocated it tackling me about a week ago during practice - running his hand down my chest, brushing against my hand, sneaking inside my pocket. The only words my brain could summon were "oh, hello" and not even those made it past my lips.</p><p>Don't get me wrong, Kyle has touched me plenty of times, but never like this. Before I could wrap my mind around the weird feelings that were erupting in my chest and gut, he leans forward and practically fucking <em>purrs</em> in my ear, "Come on, give it to me, Stan."</p><p>And I know what he means. I know what he wants. But fuck if my actual breathing doesn't hitch for a second. And then as quickly as he started, he pulls away. "No, wait," I almost say, but can't because my brain still refuses to cooperate.</p><p>And then he's walking away saying, "Whatever man. I'll just get something from Kenny."</p><p>And I feel... cold? Guilty? I should have just let him take it from me. I didn't mean to feel... feel what? I couldn't think about this right now. Not when Kyle was flopping on his bed and reaching for his phone.</p><p>It only took me a second to come back to my senses when I saw him pouting. "Wait, hang on," I said, crossing the room, drawing the flask from my pocket.</p><p>I sat next to him without touching him first, because I didn't want to reawaken any of the feelings that had just come up and second because I didn't know if his dysphoria could take being touched right now. So instead, I just offered him the bottle.</p><p>"Sorry," I apologized. "It's just not a point of pride for me that I carry this, okay? But I want you to actually be able to do your shot, so... Its moonshine, though. Its gross but it's even strong enough to get me fucked up so please just take it slow, ok?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That fucking interaction replays on a loop in my head while I’m staring into the void that is my text log with Kenny. What the fuck even was my voice? And Stan just made this breathless little sound that made my gut twist and my ears burn to think about, to wonder<em> if I could make him do it again.</em></p><p>
  <strong>No.</strong>
</p><p>Even if he wanted to do anything... what would even happen? What would that even be? I can’t even think of being hugged right now without remembering my shitty wrong body and wanting to puke.</p><p>
  <strong>Get it together Broflovski.</strong>
</p><p>I’m still trying to make my fingers work, type out a quick message to Ken asking for booze or weed, when I hear Stan shift. It still startles me when the bed dips and his voice comes from above me, too close.</p><p>“Wait, hang on.”</p><p><em>Not close enough</em>, my brain supplies unhelpfully. I look up at him and immediately regret it. Stan’s face and neck are tinted pink and the expression of shame on his face makes me feel a little guilty.</p><p>“Sorry,”</p><p>He bites his lip, worries the slightly chapped skin between his teeth and I almost don’t catch the rest of what he’s saying.</p><p>“It’s just not a point of pride for me that I carry this, okay?”</p><p>It takes a second for me to realize that he didn’t know that I know how bad his drinking is. He’s my best friend.<em> Of course I know!</em> I’ve known since I stole a sip of his root beer at the movies in ninth grade and had to force myself not to spit it out all over the lady in front of us.</p><p>“...it’s moonshine, though. It’s gross but it’s even strong enough to get me fucked up so please just take it slow, ok?”</p><p>There he goes with the lip biting again. <em>Why is that so fucking distracting?</em></p><p>This time, I definitely did miss part of what he’d said, but he was already pressing the flask into my hand and looking away guiltily. I twist off the tiny metal cap and tilt the flask up. I’m not expecting it to still be full after leaving him sitting out in the cold so long, so I almost choke on the amount of bitter liquid that pours out into my mouth and down the side of my chin.</p><p>And then I do choke when the taste and burn finally hit me full force. My eyes water and my nose and throat are on fire. I swallow convulsively, even as I cough and splutter, trying to keep the vile stuff down.</p><p>“<em>Jesus Christ</em> Stan! You <strong><em>drink</em></strong> this?! Holy <em>shit</em> that hurts! Fuck!”</p><p>My voice is hoarse and it cracks high on the last word.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My head reeled at his volume. "Shh, Kyle, keep it down!" I whispered furiously, "Do you <em>want</em> your mom to hear you? Gimme that," I snap and snatch it back from him, taking a swig and wincing at the heat that stung my mouth and throat as I expertly swallowed.</p><p>"And yeah I drink it," I respond to his - probably rhetorical - question, replacing the cap and laying down next to him. "It's the only thing that does anything anymore."</p><p>I offer the flask again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He snatches the flask back, somehow without spilling. I laugh at his fussing, but the sound dies in my throat when he brings the flask to his lips and swallows effortlessly. I shouldn’t be so fascinated by the way his Adam’s Apple bobs when he swallows, but I am and I feel a pang of jealousy.</p><p>“And yeah I drink it,”</p><p>The bed shifts and he’s laying beside me, head next to mine in the middle of my bed and feet still planted on the floor next to where mine dangle off the edge. I resist the urge to kick at him for being so fucking tall.</p><p>“It’s the only thing that does anything anymore.”</p><p>Stan’s voice sounds hollow, resigned and I reach across myself to put a hand on his shoulder, turning into him slightly. When he offers the flask with a sigh, I take it in my free hand and unscrew the cap with my teeth. The cool metal hurts scraping against them but I don’t care. The cap clangs against the side, hanging by the little strap that keeps it connected when I tip it back and take a much smaller swig.</p><p>My eyes still water, but the way it burns down my throat, resting hot in my stomach feels almost nice. <em>Soothing, is this what he feels?</em> I take another swallow and pass it back to him. I don’t really feel anything yet - I’ve been drunk before.</p><p>My thumb fiddles with the collar of his jacket, rubbing across the seams and dipping in to brush the soft lining. Stan sighs and I hear him swallow again, but I don’t bring my eyes back up to his. Instead, I just lay there beside him and watch my fingers trace patterns against his shoulder.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I watched Kyle take the flask and open it effortlessly. With his teeth.</p><p>We're not going to talk about the thoughts that rushed into my head at that, or what it did to the rest of me. I dont know what the fuck was wrong with my brain tonight but <em><strong>goddamn</strong> it needed to stop</em>.</p><p>I try my best to focus on Kyle's face instead, watching as he forces the first sip down, the corners of his mouth pulling out in a grimace. It's obvious that he's having trouble with it, but he takes another swallow anyway. He was just so fucking <em>cute</em>. How was it possible someone so cute existed, and how was it possible that he was my best friend?</p><p>He gives me a look, a shadow of a smile, and hands the flask back. I take it, swishing it around. We haven't even made a dent in it yet. For longer than I meant to, I just stared at the bottle. Waiting to see how buzzed I was once it settled. When I had decided not at all, I took several gulps, replacing the cap and setting it down between Kyle and I. He had turned on his side to play with my collar, something I'd grown used to by now. Kyle had a thing for fabrics.</p><p>"Feel anything yet?" I asked, turning to look at him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I hear Stan gulp down a couple swallows and without my consent my eyes are flicking up to his throat again, face heating up at the sound of it and the way the muscles contract under the thin skin of his throat. </p><p>“Feel anything yet?”</p><p>His voice is soft, concerned, and I remember what I’m supposed to be doing. My free hand gropes for the flask again, eyes still on his until he turns away to cough a little.</p><p>The “no” I shoot back is automatic. <em>Do I feel anything?</em> A little warm, a little more relaxed maybe. I’m not sure that’s the alcohol though and take the flask in hand before I can think about <em>that</em> too hard.</p><p>When I look back down, my hand is splayed under his jacket on the opposite shoulder, knuckles brushing the fur lining inside. <em>How did I get so close to him?</em></p><p>I can feel the heat of Stan’s skin through the thin fabric of his tshirt, overheating under the winter coat. <em>Why does he still have this thing on anyway?</em></p><p>I feel the chest under my hand...<em>why can’t I make myself move it</em>...shake slightly as I struggle to open the damned thing with just my left hand. He’s laughing at me.</p><p>“Fuck you, Stan.”</p><p>But I feel like laughing too when he takes the flask in one hand and opens the cap with two fingers right in front of my face.</p><p>Without thinking, I lean up on my left elbow and press mostly closed lips to the opening, in case he startles and tries to pour the whole thing down my throat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"No," he responds instantly, hand searching around for the bottle. His gaze holds mine and I am entranced. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but had that light spackling of freckles always been <em>so cute?</em> Had his <em>eyes</em> always been so captivating? My heart does a funny leap and I quickly turned and coughed to cover it up.</p><p>I startled when I felt his hand slip across my chest to the inside of my jacket, rubbing slow circles. Okay, he was definitely tipsy, even if he tried to protest that fact. And I was just buzzed enough to let him. It took me a second to realize he was fumbling, trying to open the flask one handed. I chuckle and am met with a fierce green gaze.</p><p>"Fuck you, Stan," but he is holding back a smile.</p><p>I took the flask from his hand, turned on my side to face him, fastened my two fingers around the lid, and undid the lid in a single, practiced motion.</p><p>I'd be lying if I said his look of awe didnt make me feel weirdly proud of myself. Almost automatically, he leans up and wraps his lips around the rim and I tip the bottle up, letting him sip until I can see he is finished. The whole thing was, "<em>weirdly attractive...</em>"</p><p>Kyle gives me a look, and I feel heat rise up my neck into my cheeks. <b>Shit</b> I just said that out loud.</p><p>"N-no homo," I insist, shaking my head. "Sorry, <em>ignore me</em>."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I let Stan tip the flask back and took a bigger gulp this time, the taste and burn fading into the background as I swallowed and licked the residue from my upper lip.</p><p>“weirdly attractive...”</p><p>If I hadn’t just swallowed the moonshine in my mouth, I’d have choked. As it is, I spluttered a bit, eyes glued to Stan’s face.</p><p>Stan wrenches the flask away, definitely spilling somewhere this time, face and neck tomato red. It’s sort of...</p><p>
  <em>Cute.</em>
</p><p><em>Wait,<strong> no.</strong></em> What the <strong>fuck</strong> Kyle?</p><p>“N-no homo,” he says and the bed rattles with the force of his head shake.</p><p>“Sorry, ignore me.”</p><p>He sits up on his elbows and I feel the world sway under me from the motion. My fist clenches in his shirt automatically, trying to ground myself.</p><p>Okay, I’m definitely tipsy. Maybe a little more than. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I lift myself off the bed with my elbows, and Kyle tightens a fist in my shirt. A pang of worry shoots through me, and I look down at him, almost kind of curled in on himself.</p><p>"Oh no," I turned on my side to face him fully, embarrassment forgotten. My hand came up naturally to rest on his shoulder blade, as if I could steady him even though he was still laying down. "You didn't over do it did you? What about your shot?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stan wraps an arm around me, pulling me in. My body buzzes pleasantly and for a minute I let my forehead rest against his collarbone. When I chance a glance back up, he looks so worried that I almost laugh until I take in what he’s saying.</p><p>“You didn’t overdo it, did you? What about your shot?”</p><p><strong>Fuck!</strong> The whole point for even drinking was to do my shot and<em> I forgot</em>? The thing I’ve been waiting for since I was <em>fifteen</em>?</p><p>“I’m okay.”</p><p>The words tumble out too fast and end up muffled by his chest. We’re way too close. This <em>should</em> feel weird. <em>Why doesn’t this feel weird?</em></p><p>I pull back a little and burp into my fist, suddenly nauseous from the anxiety and lack of actual food. <em>Gross</em>. I push myself up and out of his grasp then and make my way over to the paper pharmacy bag discarded on the floor in front of my bathroom door.</p><p>I manage not to stumble even though I’m definitely drunk now. Stan’s always right behind me, fussing that he can get what I need and I should be careful, that I should drink water.</p><p>It’s <em>irritating</em>, but that’s just how Stan is.</p><p>I get everything out and put it on the bathroom counter. Vial, big needles to draw the thick liquid up with, thin needles to use on myself, alcohol swabs, sharps container, and detailed instructions.</p><p>Looking over it all is overwhelming. My head swims for a second and I reach out to find my balance.</p><p>“Dude I don’t think I can do this.”</p><p>My hands are shaking. <b>Fuck! </b>Why am I such a <em><b>fucking girl </b></em>about this all of the sudden? It’s just a shot. I watched them take my blood today and didn’t even flinch. Why is this any different?!</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>I grab the paper with all the instructions and QR code’s for video tutorials and shove it at Stan, not making eye contact. This is humiliating.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I look at his supplies all laid out on the counter and I watch him scanning over them with this, just, <em>look</em> on his face. And I knew before he even spoke what he was going to say.</p><p>"Dude, I dont think I can do this," and I watch him pull his hands into himself. They were shaking. Just as I opened my mouth to suggest he do it tomorrow, he shoves the instruction paper at me. I draw back a bit, startled.</p><p>I just stare at it for a second.</p><p>"You... you want <strong>me </strong>to do it?" I asked stupidly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You want <strong>me</strong> to do it?”</p><p>I nod my head and then turn and swipe at my eyes angrily. I only just manage not to swipe everything off the counter in a fit of rage and guilt.</p><p><em>I</em> should be able to do this. It’s <em>my</em> body, <em>my</em> medication. Why didn’t I just let the nurse do it? I know I wanted to film it at home, have proof just for me of how far I’ve come.</p><p>But it’s not like I can film this now anyway. So it was a waste.</p><p>I turn back to Stan, my best friend and find him carefully looking over the pages. The paper shakes slightly in his hands, but the look on his face is calm and reassuring.</p><p>Maybe I can do this after all? If he helps. I sit down on the closed toilet lid and fumble for the button and zip of my pants, shoving them down and just barely catching my dick before it slides out of the leg of my boxers.</p><p>“T-turn around a sex-<b>gah</b> sec! Don’t look for a- I, there’s something I gotta-“</p><p><em>God</em> I sound like fucking <em>Tweek</em>.</p><p>I know I’m loud, but he turns without complaining and I shove my dick back up and into the harness. My harness is old so the elastic is starting to stretch a bit and the packer itself pops up a lot without the pressure of jeans. I tuck the tip up into the waistband of the harness so it doesn’t look like I have a boner.</p><p>“Okay, you can look again.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The instructions are written very clearly, and I had seen shots given before. Scott Malkinson loads of times, and my Grandpa when they gave him shots in the nursing home. I just had never done it myself.</p><p>I was more than a little nervous, and I probably wasnt in the best condition to give it, but at least I was only just buzzed. It was that buzz that you can push away when you really need to. I took a deep breath, and reached up for the supplies to try and organize them. When Kyle started telling me to turn around, slurring and stammering, I made the mistake of looking up. Just for an instant, but it was enough for me to realize why he was telling me to turn around.</p><p>I hadn't realized he was packing. Not that it was that big of a deal, it was just a dick. I turned my focus back to organizing the tools, while Kyle readjusted behind me.</p><p>"Okay, you can look again."</p><p>"Okay," I replied, turning around. "So, hey this says it can go in your thigh or in your butt... do you... I mean, do you have a preference?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Okay, you can look again.”</p><p>Stan smiles at me, warm and reassuring. My stomach flips and I have to focus on my breathing for a second so I don’t puke. <em>He’s so... <strong>good</strong>.</em></p><p>“Okay, so, hey this says it can go in your thigh or your butt... do you... I mean, do you have a preference?”</p><p>Do I have a preference? Knee-jerk says thigh, but the dr said it might hurt more, and seeing Stan on his knees between my legs would be too... <em>weird</em> right now. I wouldn’t be able to relax. Yeah, thigh would be bad.</p><p>“Butt might be better...”</p><p>I manage not to slur or stammer but my face heats up and I want to disappear. I want to be back on the bed, pleasantly buzzed, face shoved into Stan’s chest. I just barely resist the urge to come over and bury my face there again.</p><p>I’m just nervous. He’s my best friend and everyone needs physical affection, physical touch from time to time. It isn’t <em>weird</em> unless I make it weird. <em>Right?</em></p><p>“It’ll be easier if we... if I go lay down.”</p><p>I motion to the bed, face still hot.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Sure, yeah of course," I said, pausing in front of the sink. Okay... syringe, vial, bandaid... alcohol pad. I gathered up one of each, and turned back to Kyle, "will you take these over to your nightstand? I'm gonna wash my hands."</p><p>I soaped up my hands and rubbed them together until white foam fell from them. It hit me suddenly what I was about to do and how much Kyle was trusting me with. I stilled my hands, cupping them together Under the warm water and taking a deep breath.<em> If he didn't think you could do it, he wouldn't have asked you.</em></p><p><em>'But he is drunk,'</em> cried a little voice in the back of my head.<em> 'And you're just the one who happens to be here, you think you're so <strong>important</strong>, but <strong>you're interchangeable</strong>.'</em></p><p>"Shut up..." I growled.</p><p>
  <em>'You're nothing but a <strong>fuck up</strong>, look at you, carrying a flask of alcohol around with you everywhere, you're <strong>as bad as your father</strong>. Getting your<strong> best friend</strong> so drunk he can't give himself his own shot. You'll fuck this up, too. Just like you fuck up everything else.'</em>
</p><p>I stood, frozen, shaking. What if it was right? What if I couldn't do this? What if I fucked up and hurt him? <em>I was nothing but a fuck up</em>... but I couldn't fuck this up. I turned to look at Kyle who was laying on the bed, trembling worse than I was. It didnt matter what had happened to get us to this moment. It would be so easy to listen to that voice, to chicken out, to run away like I always did, but right now, Kyle needed me more. I could run away from almost anything, but I couldn't run away from him.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, I managed to still my hands and get them rinsed and dried. I took one long look in the mirror. I had a goddamned job to do, and I was going to fucking do it.</p><p>Walking over to where he was laying on the bed, I sat next to him, taking one last look at the instructions. Another deep breath. First step was to draw it into a vial. I performed each step as instructed to draw out the thick, clear liquid. It was harder than I anticipated, I ended up having to try like five times, letting out a frustrated sigh or an explicative between each failed attempt. Finally, <em>finally</em> I got it, heaved a sigh of relief, and got rid of the air. Drew out, replaced the cap.</p><p>I looked over to see Kyle watching me, and I quickly looked away.</p><p>"Ready?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I rolled my boxers down halfway and pulled the strap of my harness up high enough that it was out of the way. I laid down on the bed, belly down and tried to breathe through the anxiety. Still the all-over tremble </p><p>This was <strong><em>Stan</em></strong>. My best friend since forever. The one person I <em>trust</em> above pretty much anyone. It would be okay.</p><p>Maybe it was just the alcohol, but the anxiety and fear and nerves started to turn to excitement. The ideas of Stan doing this was suddenly better than any doctor or me trying to do it myself.</p><p>Everything always worked out when Stan was around, so this would turn out, too.</p><p>I turned my head toward the table beside my bed when I finally heard the water go off. Stan stood, looking over everything and even though he was visibly nervous, I wasn’t worried.</p><p>I watched him try and fail to draw up the right amount of testosterone. I was just about to remind him to start with air in the syringe and push it into the vial when he finally got it.</p><p>His eyes met mine for just a second and then it was time.</p><p>“Ready?”</p><p>I nodded, but Stan still just watched.</p><p>“Ready, Stan. I’m okay. I- uh..<em>. I trust you</em>...”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <strong>“I trust you.”</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>"Ye-yeah. Okay," I took the alcohol pad and climbed up, positioning myself over his calves. My nerves were getting to me again, I was about to shove this shit in him, what if I hit something I wasnt supposed to. I stalled the only way I knew how, "<strong>wait</strong>, shouldn't we like, document this?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I could tell Stan was getting nervous. He was probably worried he’d hit a nerve or a vein. I was a little nervous it would hurt, but Stan was here <em>so...</em></p><p>“<strong>Wait</strong>, shouldn’t we like, document this?”</p><p>My mouth opened before I even knew what I was saying.</p><p>“Stan, <em>it’s okay</em>. There’s nothing you can fuck up. Draw up a little before you inject. If there’s no blood, you’re good.”</p><p>I kind of wanted to document it, but if we didn’t get it over with, Stan was going to back out. And I needed <em>him</em> to do this. </p><p>“Just...<em>hurry</em> up already.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Kay," I breathed and opened the alcohol pad. Mentally calculated the best spot the instructions had said to do it. Swiped the spot with the pad and opened the syringe.</p><p>There was one final moment of panic as I was bringing the needle to his skin, but as the needle sunk in, it was like all my panic melted away. I was doing it, and if I fucked up then I fucked up, but there was no turning back, so I had no choice but to go on.</p><p>Kyle tensed the slightest bit as the needle bit into his flesh, but I didnt pay it any mind, instead drawing up slightly as instructed, seeing that there was no blood - so far so good - and pushed the plunger in slowly but steadily.</p><p>When it was gone, I pulled the needle straight out and a small bead of the serum came out, which I dabbed with the alcohol pad. I applied pressure and massaged a little and let it really hit me that it was over. <em>I had done it</em>. I had really fucking done it, and <em>I hadn't fucked anything up</em> just like he’d assured me I wouldn't.</p><p>I got up and moved to his side, "How was it? Bad?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I shivered at the cold alcohol swab and was grateful for Stan’s weight on my legs. It kept me from tensing too much when I felt the brief sting of the needle sliding in just a touch too slow.</p><p>“<em>Stan...</em>” I breathed his name, barely audible even to me.</p><p>And all at once it was too much. My breath hitched and my fists clenched in the sheets. I was a man, <strong>finally</strong>. I swallowed convulsively, forcing back the tears I could feel prickling my eyes and the manic laugh that burbled up from my throat for a fraction of a second.</p><p>The needle slid out and was replaced by a bandage and firm but gentle pressure. First just a couple fingers, then his whole hand pressed in gently over the bandaid. His hands were sweaty, but cool. The touch seemed to ground me and when he pulled back, crawling off of me, the moment of hysteria was gone.</p><p>“How was it? Bad?”</p><p>He sounded so uncertain, lost. It made my chest clench and ache. I wanted to find a way to get it through his thick skull that he was amazing. He’s always been amazing for me, going out of his way every time I’ve ever needed him.</p><p>“Fi- uh... no. I mean it <em><strong>was</strong></em> fine, but... <em>dude</em>...”</p><p>My voice was cracking hard now, throat tight and eyes stinging. Without looking at his face I pulled myself up the bed and wrapped my arms around his middle, face pressed into his side just above his hip.</p><p>“Just... <em>thanks</em>.”</p><p>I was crying for real now and I hoped he couldn’t tell. Or at least wouldn’t judge. I felt a twinge of disgust at being so emotional, but I was going to get everything I’d ever hoped for.</p><p>I could finally get my gender marker changed and go to college with my best friends. My body would become what it should be. I could get my letter for top surgery in three months.</p><p>“<em>Fuck Stan</em>... thank you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kyle looked up at me with a look I couldn't quite place, and managed to stumble out, "Fi-uh... no. I mean it <strong>was</strong> fine, but... <em>dude..</em>. "</p><p>His voice sounded rough, and the next thing I knew, he was hauling himself up from the bed and attaching himself around my waist. I was too surprised to do anything until he said into my shirt, "Just... <em>thanks</em>."</p><p>I wrapped my arms around him tentatively. "<em>Fuck Stan.</em>.. thank you."</p><p>His tone, the way his voice cracked - it was at that moment I realized he was crying. I drew back just enough to put my arms under his and pulled him flush up against me, into my lap, clasping my hands behind his back and burying my head in his neck.</p><p>Kyle only cried on very rare occasions and only for very good reasons, but it didnt matter. Any time he cried, it pulled at my heart.</p><p>"<em>Fuck, Ky,</em> don't cry. You're gonna get me started," I managed as I felt the familiar lump in my throat and the feeling of tears starting in the corners of my eyes.</p><p><b>Fuck.</b> I wasnt drunk enough for this.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stan hauled me up into his lap and it didn’t matter that my boxers were still pulled down under the spot where he gave me my shot. My arms circled his shoulders, one hand sliding his hat away and threading my fingers through his hair as the dam broke.</p><p>I sobbed into his hair, full body, wrenching, hiccuping things that I’d normally be ashamed of. But <em>fuck</em> I’d needed this. I just hoped Stan wouldn’t mind the tears and slobber and snot too much.</p><p>“<em>Fuck, Ky</em>, don’t cry. You’re gonna get me started.”</p><p>Stan said into the crook of my neck, shoulders trembling as he took a shaky breath in, nose nuzzling the shell of my ear when he shifted to take a deeper breath. My arms tightened around him, fingers tensing a bit in his hair. His voice was gravely and thick with emotion.</p><p>“I-It’s a good c-c-cry. ‘m okay.”</p><p>I couldn’t stop my voice from stuttering and breaking, but Stan wasn’t faring much better. He’d moved his face up into my hat now but I could still hear his sniffles and feel the shake of his shoulders.</p><p>My tears began to die off after another minute or two, just the occasional hiccuping intake of breath but Stan just buried his face harder against me, grip becoming painfully tight. I pulled back a little, trying to get a look at him, but he chose that moment to sprawl backward on the bed, pulling me down so we were pressed chest to chest.</p><p>“Stan, <em>hey</em>, what is it, buddy?”</p><p>Without skipping a beat, my hands resumed running through his silky hair in an attempt to sooth him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I <em>really</em> wasn't fucking drunk enough for this. For this stupid voice in the back of my head telling me, no, screaming at me that it was my fault. That I had been the one to make Kyle cry, and that thought was unbearable. My mind started spiraling through all the things I had managed to fuck up tonight alone. </p><p>I showed up without waiting, I stole his food so he got too drunk, I provided him with the fucking alcohol <em>knowing </em>he had to do his shot, <em>knowing </em>his tolerance was lower than mine, <em>knowing</em> that he had already reached tipsy and I let him drink more. The voice of depression and my own had become one. I felt my limbs and body drop, like I had suddenly stepped on Mars and the gravity was pulling me down. </p><p>He was right, back in fourth grade when he told me all I did was bring him down. He was fucking right, now I was even keeping him from being able to do his own fucking shot, I encouraged him drinking, which is something I didn't even like about myself. Why the fuck did I do that - why did I do that?? I gripped him tighter, not wanting to let him go, wanting to shove him away, wanting comfort or solace or something, knowing there was nothing. Nothing but this cyclone of guilt and anger and sorrow. My arms tightened around him.</p><p>I was a pit, and I was going to swallow him whole, and I couldn't fucking stop myself. I wanted to stop myself. I wanted someone to stop me. I wanted him to stop me. But it was pointless, it was so fucking pointless. He couldn't, God couldn't, I couldn't.</p><p>I escaped the vortex of my mind just enough to notice him trying to pull back, and I didnt care if he was trying to run or trying to comfort me, I couldn't let him see me like this. I pulled him down with me to keep from curling into the fetal position and faintly registered his hands in my hair, him gently saying, "Stan, <em>hey</em>, what is it buddy?" But I couldn't - I <strong>could not</strong> - let him see what was going on. </p><p>So I just shook my head trying to speak through the sobs that were still racking my body. "I can't, Kyle... I can't bring you down, I don't want you to leave me..."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stan’s grip across my back was just this side of painful, though his hand fisted in my shirt tight enough that I could hear the collar stitching pop when I tried to pull back.</p><p>“I can’t, Kyle...I can’t bring you down, I don’t want you to leave me...”</p><p>He let out a sound I hadn’t heard anyone make since Clyde told us his mom died and I just, it was like I wasn’t me anymore. I crushed him to me, speaking against his ear. Mostly nonsense and apologies.</p><p>“Oh <em>fuck</em>, dude, no... shhh, shhh, <em>hey</em>. I’m not going anywhere Stan. I am so sorry. We were kids. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean any of it, <em><strong>fuck</strong></em>.”</p><p>This was <strong>my</strong> fault. All this time, had he been afraid to tell me? I thought he was getting better. <strong>Fuck</strong>!</p><p>“I’m so fucking sorry, you won’t... you’re not... fuck man, <em>I sound like a fucking girl.</em>. but you practically just saved me here. You’re the best friend, the best <em>person</em> I know.”</p><p>My voice was cracking and I was definitely crying again, watching his dark hair turn jet black and shiny as the tears soaked in, but once I started talking I couldn’t stop.</p><p>“I just had one of the worst days of my life and you were waiting for me for hours if I know you and you put up with my shitty attitude and enabling your drinking problem so I could calm down. And then you took over for me when I couldn’t just... <em>fuck, Stan.</em>”</p><p>I was definitely drunk. Way too drunk if I was actually saying this shit. I pulled us over, putting all my body weight into it so that we were laying side by side and let him shove his face under my chin.</p><p>My ribs were so fucking sore that I gasped when he pressed his face into my chest, but my dysphoria had taken a vacation and in its place was a soft, warm, fluttering ache. </p><p>It was kind of nice.</p><p>After that I let myself focus on his breath coming through my shirt. How fucking warm he was. The way his hair brushed my chin.</p><p>And I didn’t let myself think about it if I pressed a few kisses to the top of his head, his temple. It was the alcohol. It was the closeness and the warmth in my chest. It was because he was my best friend, my closest friend. </p><p>That’s all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I let Kyle comfort me, I let him tell me how he felt. I let him calm me down. The tears subsided slowly, leaving a feeling of hollowness.</p><p>I think this was my least favorite part, feeling like a husk or a shell. Feeling like there was nothing left inside me. I shut my eyes and buried my face in his chest. He felt nice. Familiar. Safe. </p><p>It took me a second to realize he still had his binder on, but I hadn't regained my ability to move or form words yet. I shut my eyes against his chest and let his arms keep me steady. I took a deep breath and let myself cuddle in a little closer. He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips to my hair- <em>wait</em>. And that managed to put me on guard. </p><p>Did I just feel what I thought I felt? Then he did it again. Yes, that was definitely his lips. The next one was on my temple, and I'd be lying if I said it didnt draw me from my numbness. My heart felt like it leapt, and then it quickened. The next one was a little below the previous and I - <strong><em>fuck</em></strong> - couldn't let him do that. <em>Not without</em> - really... <strong>shit</strong>. I pulled away, and looked up at him, breathing faster than I wanted to admit. "...Kyle? Are... why? Are you still drunk?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>A puff of warm air tickles my neck, a silent gasp from Stan. I’m about to ask how he’s feeling when he jerks back, abruptly pulling away, head knocking my chin a little and I’m startled by a high pitched whine. <em>Oh fuck</em>, was that<b> me</b>?</p><p>“...Kyle? Are... why? Are you still drunk?” </p><p>His voice is tinny, hollow and I really must be drunk because his face is... warm brown eyes, red rimmed and too bright with leftover tears, cheeks tear stained and blotchy, lips swollen and bitten raw.</p><p>Since when did I think <strong><em>Stan</em></strong>, a dude and my best friend, <em>Stanley</em> fucking Marsh, was beautiful?</p><p>He’s still looking at me like I hit him and I realize I’ve probably been staring too long. I bite my lip, looking away, guilty.</p><p>“...sorry, yeah.”</p><p>He looks... I don’t know what that expression even is and <em>why does everything have to be so damn confusing?</em> I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I don’t mean to ask out loud, but I’m definitely still drunk because the words come out anyway. Not in the way I want.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t get you.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks crestfallen and I have to grab him by the back of the neck to keep him from fucking bolting. Our foreheads knock together and I let him pull back a little, but don’t completely let go.</p><p> </p><p>“That- that’s not what I meant and you know it, Stan. Just...” He bites into his lip again and I forget to breathe for a beat. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking right now. I don’t know how to help. For Christ sake, Stanley, <strong><em>stop</em></strong>! You’re fucking bleeding.”</p><p> </p><p>On instinct, and probably because it’s pissing me off, I grab his face and pinch in until his jaw opens slightly and his lip slips away from his teeth. Blood pools in the center and starts to drip down his chin, my hand preventing him from licking it away.</p><p> </p><p>I pull my hand back like it’s been bitten, but I don’t look away from his face in case he starts up again.</p><p> </p><p>What’s gotten into you Broflovski?</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I don’t get you." Kyle growled and I flinched back like he had hit me, because I mean he basically just fucking had. What the <em>fuck</em> is with this guy? One second he is comforting me and kissing my fucking forehead and the next he is acting like... <em>like he hates me.</em> I couldn't handle this right now. I back up more, but he grabs me by the back of my neck, and the pain of his fingernails digging stops me in my tracks. Our foreheads bump, <em>when did we get this close?</em> I felt his breath against my lips and I pulled away, but Kyle's hand and nails stopped me from going far.</p><p>Jesus, I couldn't fucking think. "That-that's not what I meant and you know it, Stan. Just..." His voice sounded distant to my ears, the feeling of nails biting into flesh overwhelming my senses. I wanted to tell him to stop, I wanted to tell him harder. I drive the edge of my tooth into my lip, just trying to gain some goddamned focus back. "I can't tell what you're thinking right now," Buddy, trust me, you dont want to. "I dont know how to help." You dont want to do that either. I faintly registered the taste of blood on my lips.</p><p>"For Christ sake, Stanley, <strong>stop</strong>! You're fucking bleeding."</p><p> </p><p>Then my face is in his hand, pinching just enough to get me to let go and then he is pulling away. And it all just kind of hits me at once that... <em>what the fuck am I doing?</em> Kyle is fucking drunk, what am I hoping is going to happen here? He is going to realize he <strong><em>actually loves me</em></strong> and is still going to feel that way once he is sober again. I needed to get a fucking grip, I knew damn well that wasnt how alcohol worked.</p><p> </p><p>And that thought made the ache in my chest come back full force, and I just needed... "I have to go," I choked out, shaking my head.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I have to go.”</p><p>Now what did I do? I was harsh, yeah, but he’s never acted this way before. Blood drips onto my bedspread when he shakes his head and I stare at it, trying not to scream.</p><p>We’ve come full circle and now I just want this night to be over.</p><p>That’s not quite right. I want to go back. I want to lay in bed and put on some dumb show until we fall asleep.</p><p>“Fuck, <em>wait</em>. I’m sorry, Stan. You- you can have my room and I’ll go sleep in Ike’s... if you want. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re not going home to drink yourself into a stupor.”</p><p>I reach out to grab him, but think better of it at the last minute. I’ve never seen him look at me like that before, like he can’t stand being in the room with me. Something inside me twists painfully at the thought of <em>Stan</em> feeling like this. </p><p>I don’t know what the fuck his problem is, but my hand lands on something cool and smooth -his flask is still on my bed, tangled in the covers- and I think I know how to get him to stay. Even if it’s manipulative, I can’t let him walk home like this.</p><p>I’m making a mistake and I know it, but I keep going. I spin it open, it’s less than half full now, and down what’s probably half of what’s left with a glare.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I pushed myself off the bed, trying to hold back another bought of tears, I was done feeling tonight. I was already figuring which combination of alcohol would fuck me up the best.</p><p>"Fuck, <em>wait</em>. I'm sorry, Stan." I stopped, maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just grin and bear it. "You-you can have my room and I'll go sleep in Ike's... if you want. I dont know what's going on..." i felt hollow again. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to just come clean and tell him everything. "But you're not going home to drink yourself into a stupor."</p><p>I had to. It was a compulsion I couldn't ignore. My hands shook for it. What little bit I had taken from the flask hadn't been enough, and it had long since worn off. 'I'm sorry, Kyle...' I thought and started for the door again.</p><p>I heard a high, metallic <strong>pop</strong> and i stopped in my tracks. The flask. I spun around just in time to see Kyle give me a defiant look before turning it up.</p><p>"Kyle!" I shrieked, and launched myself at him, pushing him back. He managed to keep the bottle from spilling by holding it up over his head. I snatched it from his hands and downed the rest of it. It would be enough to get me buzzed again, but at least Kyle wouldn't be able to hurt himself with it. That manipulative little fuck. He <em>knew</em> I wasn't going to leave him now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My head bounced off the bed with the force of Stan slamming me down and swallowing down the rest of the flask. <em>Good</em>. Enough so he won’t go into withdrawal, but not enough to hurt him. My ribs ached with the pressure, though and I shoved him back a little, grabbing his sleeve like a leash.</p><p>“<em><strong>Fuck man</strong></em>, I wasn’t gonna drink anymore of it. <em>Shit</em>!”</p><p>I rubbed my chest with my free hand. Oww. My binder really was starting to be an issue and I was going to be drunk enough soon that I absolutely couldn’t sleep in it without dying or something. I sighed and hauled myself up while I still had the ability.</p><p>I dug into the pile of clothes in my closet, probably a mix of clean and dirty, and grabbed a pair of loose basketball shorts and a blue hoodie that reminded me of Stan’s hat.</p><p>“I’m gonna...” I trailed off, holding out the clothes and nodding toward the bathroom before actually heading there.</p><p>I didn’t lock the door, just in case. I didn’t think he was that drunk, but Stan’s puked on my floor enough that I’d rather risk him seeing than having to clean it up. I took a deep breath and slipped out of my shirt.</p><p>“You can do this, Kyle” I said to my reflection, before turning away and peeling my binder up and off. My ribs felt instant relief and the alcohol must have been taking the edge off, because the air on my chest didn’t make my stomach churn. I pulled the hoodie on and went over to take a piss.</p><p>This was gonna suck.</p><p>I was expecting it, but the blood in my boxers still made my stomach drop. It burned a little to pee, but the paper came back clean. The bleeding must have stopped. I inspected my harness for blood and powdered my dick before sliding it back in, letting it swing free so that the tip didn’t tear from being in the waistband overnight.</p><p>I threw the boxers into the hamper and threw on my shorts, almost forgetting to flush or wash my hands in my hurry to check on Stan. I didn’t think he would leave, but it was quiet out in my room.</p><p>I hurried out of the bathroom, fear suddenly hitting hard when I glanced around to find my room empty. I should’ve gotten over it and just left the door open. Stan’s seen me naked a couple times by now.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>, where are you, <strong><em>fuck</em></strong>!”</p><p>I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the ends, twisting, hat nowhere to be found.I grab my phone in a rush and dial his number, pacing. He’s in my contacts, but this is faster.</p><p>“Pick up, pick up, pick up, c’mon.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite all my weird mixed emotions, one thing came through above everything else, concern. Kyle was about to be very drunk and there was only one thing I knew that could help. So I pushed aside all the thoughts telling me I wasnt worth shit, all of the urges to beg Kyle to just grab me like that one more time, and I went downstairs.</p><p>The lower story was very quiet and when I looked at the microwave I saw why. It was past 11, Kyle's family had long since been asleep.</p><p> </p><p>I opened his pantry door and, bingo. I snatched up the box of ritz and went to his fridge, grabbing a water bottle and briefly wondering if I should bring him anything else. Dairy didnt generally sit well with alcohol. At least not for me. I decided against it and proceeded back to the stairs. I took one step and slipped, my head spinning a little. <em>Shit</em>, but I didnt feel drunk?</p><p>I sat down on the bottom step for a second,when my phone started vibrating. It was Kyle, and I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. Did he really think I was going anywhere after he pulled that stunt?</p><p> </p><p>Stan: Yeah, Kyle?</p><p>Kyle: Where the fuck are you, Stan?</p><p> </p><p>The voice on the other end of the line is shrill, almost painful. He sounds pissed. I can’t keep the smile out of my voice when I answer.</p><p> </p><p>Stan: I'm sitting in your living room? Well technically on the bottom stair.</p><p>Kyle: Why- what? <strong><em>God damnit Stan!</em></strong></p><p> </p><p>The door to his room whooshes open and I hear Kyle stalk to the edge of the landing, glaring down. I sarcastically waved at him.</p><p>"I'll be up in a second. I just got dizzy"</p><p>He flips me off and pulls the phone closer to his mouth like he isn’t standing right there.</p><p> </p><p>Kyle: Do you need me to help or something?</p><p>Stan: I dont think so. I dont feel drunk... and keep it down, your parents are asleep.</p><p>Kyle: Okay. Just...</p><p>Kyle: And It’s just mom - dad and Ike are on some stupid camping thing - and you know how hard she sleeps.</p><p> </p><p>"That's true..." I stand, sway. What the heck was wrong with me? Why was the world spinning, I wasn't - I fell to my knees and my vision started to haze over. Fuck, what was wrong with me?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I practically throw myself down the stairs, phone somewhere on the landing. I manage not to trip, but I skip the last four stairs and come down on my knees a little too hard. I don’t feel the pain through the rush of adrenaline. </p><p>
  <em>Oh</em>
</p><p>“<strong>Stan</strong>! Holy fuck, are you - <em>of course you’re not okay!</em> <strong>Fuck</strong> what do I do? What do you need?</p><p>I pull his chin up, getting him to look at me. He’s a little pale, but his eyes look reasonably focused. His dry lips twist into a grimace and it hits me.</p><p>“Stanley I’m gonna <em><strong>kill</strong></em> you I swear. When was the last time you had something to drink?”</p><p>Before he can give me some smartass remark about the moonshine, I clarify.</p><p>“<em>Water</em>. When was the last time you had water, <em>you dumbass?</em>”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Oh... <em>oh</em>. "You know, I genuinely can't remember?"</p><p>I held out the water and crackers I had snagged from the kitchen for him.</p><p>"But I got you these."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“How are you still alive?”  </p><p>I shake my head and try to push him into a sitting position on the step again. He’s got a water bottle clenched in his hand with the ritz. I snag those, but shove the bottle back at him. </p><p>“Drink, small sips. I’m not cleaning it up if you drink too fast and puke.”  I would, but I’m pissed and besides, he doesn’t need to know that. </p><p>“I’m getting us some seltzer, mom keeps a shit ton in the pantry, and something to go with these.” I hold up the crackers.</p><p>“Stay there and drink, slowly. Unless you’re gonna get sick or something.” </p><p>I pull my free hand through my hair and twist again. The twinge helps me clear my head and focus. I grab a couple cans of flavored seltzer, tumblrs of ice, cookie butter, chocolate hazelnut spread, and sunflower seed butter and head back for the stairs, using my hoodie to carry everything.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once I started, I couldn't stop. Since when did water taste<em> so fucking good</em>? I know he told me small sips, but fuck. I'd be all right, I didn't feel nauseous or anything. Before I knew it I'd finished 2/3 of the bottle and Kyle was walking back in with a mountain of snacks.</p><p> </p><p>I stood, still feeling a bit dizzy, "Need some help?" I asked, catching a seltzer can as it slipped out of Kyle's hoodie.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I take him in as I round the corner and sigh in relief. He’s still there, just moving to stand up. His color is already coming back, and the bottle of water is more than half empty. He’s still there. He’s okay.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>Thank fuck.</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>It takes everything in me to quell the urge to drop everything and just hug him. The alcohol might be starting to hit, but mostly it’s just relief. This has probably been the longest, most dramatic day of my life and I’m ready to curl up with Stan and a mountain of snacks <strong>in </strong>bed and just relax. Celebrate.</p><p>I just had my first dose of testosterone, Stan is here and safe, I have a whole weekend without Ike banging on the bathroom door literally every fucking time I’m in there.</p><p>“Sure.” I hand him another water bottle and both tumblers half full of ice - for the seltzer - and smile up at the tall bastard.</p><p>I give him a nudge with my foot.</p><p>“Go up first, in case you get dizzy again.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0044"><h2>44. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I start climbing up the stairs, holding onto the railing more than I should have to for support. I force my feet to go up one step at a time, clutching the drinks between my arm and chest. Sometimes Kyle could be such a worry wart. A little spark heated my chest, pulling me slightly from my numbness. I liked that about him.</p><p>When I had almost made it to the top, my phone buzzed in my pocket, once then twice as I made my way to the top of the stairs. Three times. It was a call. I dug in my pocket and stepped aside to let Kyle open the door. I held the phone up, so I could see the screen. And I couldn't fucking move. It was Wendy.</p><p>It was my fucking girlfriend. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>The guilt hit all at once, and <em>how? <strong>Fuck</strong>, how did I forget her?</em> I had been having all these fucking thoughts, feelings, about Kyle - <em>Kyle <strong>-Kyle!</strong></em> I was so focused on him that I forgot - <strong>actually forgot</strong> - I had a goddamned girlfriend. How the fuck did I forget I had a girlfriend? Fuck!</p><p><em>Calm down, Stan</em>. You didn't <em>do</em> anything, you just... <em>thought</em> about it really hard. You didn't forget about her, you just... you-you were letting her spend time with her friends. Yeah, that was it!</p><p>The buzzing stopped and I was still frozen, staring at my phone.</p><p>...Why was I such an idiot?</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0045"><h2>45. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I toss the snacks onto my desk and turn back to make sure mr zero-self-preservation-instinct is still upright. Stan is standing half in the doorway staring at his phone and there’s this look on his face, sad and intense, and for a minute I wonder if maybe <em>someone died.</em> </p><p>“You okay dude?”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0046"><h2>46. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took me a second to realize Kyle was talking to me. I started to look up at him, but was interrupted by my phone vibrating again. I didn’t even have to look at it to know it was Wendy again. I looked up at Kyle, "It's Wendy..."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0047"><h2>47. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Okay?</em> She was always calling, always texting any time we would hang out together. I don’t think she called this late before.</p><p>“Answer it. Or just tell her you were asleep?”</p><p>I don’t understand why he’s being so <em>weird</em>. Maybe he actually is drunk and he’s just not telling me. I’m starting to feel it myself and plop down on the bed, grabbing up the ritz and jar of Nutella on the way down.</p><p>I don’t understand them. Stan is always doing stuff for her and then the next day they break up. I don’t think it should be that complicated but he says it’s him. He just needs to work on it.</p><p>
  <em><strong>Yeah</strong>. I don’t buy that.</em>
</p><p>I mean he waited who knows how long for me in the cold. He tried really hard to calm me down even though I was mean. He gave my shot and let me cry at him and was worried that <strong>he </strong>had done something wrong and that we’d stop being friends.</p><p>And he stayed here even though I played dirty. <em>Stan</em> isn’t the problem. He can’t be. If he treats his best friend like this, Wendy is just being a bitch.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Right. Of course he wouldn't see the problem. It's not like he was having the same thoughts about <strong><em>me</em></strong>. It's not like he ever <em>wondered</em> what it would be like to...</p><p><strong>Fuck</strong>. It took everything I had to hold back tears this time. If I was staying, I couldn't break down again.</p><p>Kyle was right, if I didn't want to talk, all i had to do was tell her I fell asleep. But that would mean lying to her, and I'm a shitty liar at the best of times. This was not the best of times.</p><p>I had to call her back. I took a deep breath, with one last glance at Kyle and redialed.</p><p>It took a couple of rings before she answered sweetly, "Hey, Stan!"</p><p>And the guilt hit tenfold. Every thought I had had about Kyle in the past three hours running like a movie through my mind. My voice cracked, "Hey, Wendy." I walked into Kyle's room. Sat on his bed.</p><p>"Stan..." her tone instantly turned concerned. "Are you okay?"</p><p>I pinched the corners of my eyes with the thumb and forefinger of my free hand. "Y-yeah, I'm all right, just - having kind of a <em>rough</em> night."</p><p>The background noise on her side faded and I heard a click, "Sorry, I had to get to a place we can talk. What's going on? Is everything all right?"</p><p>I let out a pained, "Yeah, babe. Everything's all right," then managed to regain control of my voice a little, "Don't worry about me, okay? Go have fun with your friends."</p><p>She lets out a frustrated scoff, "Stan... I know you're not all right. I just left the room so we could talk. Tell me what's going on, Sweetie."</p><p>"I'm just..." I sneak a glance at Kyle. "I'm having a really bad... <em>episode</em>."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0049"><h2>49. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Stan glanced up at me and came to sit on the edge of the bed in front of where I was sprawled, my foot almost touching his hip.</p><p>“Hey, Wendy.”</p><p>He sounded exhausted, but he hadn’t been tired a minute ago. Was he faking? Or did she take that much out of him?</p><p>I shoved a cracker in my mouth to keep from saying something. He deserved a break. And she was going to ruin the rest of my night.</p><p>He tells her not to worry, he’s fine. That’s definitely a lie with the way he was crying earlier and how his voice strains. </p><p>“I’m just...”</p><p>His eyes catch mine and I just want to take his phone and throw it. Instead I shove a hand in my hair and twist at it.</p><p>“I’m having a really bad...<em>episode</em>”</p><p>His depression? Or was it something else? Was it...<em>me</em>?</p><p>I shook off the thought. I didn’t <em>do</em> anything. I was grumpy, but now we were half drunk and ready to watch bad tv and eat junk food.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0050"><h2>50. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You mean your depression," it wasn't a question. I couldn't summon the words to deny it. She sighed deeply then continued, "You should have called me, Stan."</p><p>"I... I didn't want to <em>bother</em> you."</p><p>"I'm your girlfriend, you're supposed to bother me," she hesitated. "Did you at least call Kyle?"</p><p>I flinched, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm- with him now."</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>That was it. <em>Oh</em>.</p><p>Oh what? Was that good or bad?</p><p>"Well..." she hesitated too long. "Well I won't keep you, then. I just wanted to hear your voice, we should be heading to bed soon. I love you."</p><p>"Yeah, Wendy," I started. "I-I love you, too." <strong><em>Fake</em></strong>. <em>Liar</em>. <em>Bastard</em>.</p><p>I had to fight the urge to vomit. "Goodnight, Stan," and she hung up.</p><p>I let my phone fall to the floor, put my head in my hands, and tried not to cry or puke or both. I was sure Kyle was going to have some shit to say, or questions to ask and I had no idea how i was going to answer any of them.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0051"><h2>51. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Stan?”</p><p>Did they fight? Did she say something about us hanging out like she always did? Or...?</p><p>I sat up and reached out for his shoulder, but pulled back at the last minute. I wanted to ask what happened, what she did, but it didn’t look like he could answer. Instead I grabbed my trash can and the half empty water bottle, shoving them at him. </p><p>“Don’t <em>puke</em> on my floor.”</p><p><em>Wait</em>, that’s not what I meant. <em><strong>Fuck</strong></em>!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Why can’t I just - just be <em>nice</em>? </span></p><p>I reach out and this time I do touch him, dropping the hand that was holding the cold water to the back of his neck. The cold usually helped if I was feeling sick.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0052"><h2>52. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Why couldn't feelings be easy? As guilty as I felt about what I had done to Wendy, I still couldn't shake the things I had been feeling. I couldn't make them go away. I wanted him. More than anything, I wanted him to hold me to his chest and tell me everything I was feeling was okay and valid and that I didnt have to hide it from him. But that wasnt going to happen.</p><p>The reality of the situation came down on me like the sky was falling and then kyle was placing a trash can beneath me and saying, "don't <em>puke</em> on my floor."</p><p>Of course that would be all he cared about. I took a breath, trying to get my swirling thoughts to calm down.</p><p>Then something cold touched the back of my neck, soothing the nausea. It didnt take long to realize it was Kyle's hand and I was torn between waiting to curl up into him and wanting to tear myself away.</p><p>I tried not to cry again, I really did, but I failed. <em>Miserably</em>. At least this time I managed to keep it somewhat silent.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0053"><h2>53. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I feel him tremble under my hand and move to get a look at his face, but the room sways and I catch myself with the hand on his neck and another on his thigh.</p><p>Oh fuck is he crying again? I’m not sober enough for this. I’ve never seen him cry this much. I know he’s depressed but is this how it’s <em>always</em> been for him?</p><p>“Hey, dude...”</p><p>I hear the words come out kind of stilted. How do I fucking deal with this?</p><p>Stan’s eyes are wide, teary and pained and his brow furrows while I watch from where I landed against him. For a second I just stare and try to make my heart stop pounding in my chest.</p><p>“Shit, <em>sorry</em>...”</p><p>I tell him, but I can’t move. What is this? Is this what happens when I’m drunk now? Is it because he’s crying? Do I have some - some kind of <em>crying fetish</em> now?</p><p>I can’t quite catch my breath and when I pull myself up with the hand around the back of his neck, it’s a struggle to turn away, pull myself around and off when what I really want is..</p><p>Is what, Kyle?</p><p>What do you think would happen if you kissed him? Yeah he kind of has a crush, but he has a girlfriend. A girlfriend that he loves, he just said so.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <em>He’s not gay. </em>You’re not...</span></p><p>And while we’re drunk and he’s depressed? What is <strong><em>wrong</em></strong> with you Broflovski.</p><p>
  <em>No, <strong>no..</strong></em>
  <strong>.</strong>
</p><p>You’re just drunk and horny. You’re not even gay.</p><p>What the fuck.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0054"><h2>54. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Very mild dubcon. Kyle is drunk but he would have been into this sober too. It’s something he wants.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Kyle's hands land on me, one on my neck one on my fucking thigh, my head shoots up and I am suddenly alert. I'm sure he is drunk now, and the way he says, "Hey, dude..." just reinforces that.</p><p>I blame the alcohol, but it takes me a minute to register that hey, maybe I should help him up, but by that point he is clumsily pulling himself up by my neck.</p><p>Coming dangerously close to smacking me in the chin with his head, pausing in front of me, breath actually catching in his throat, with a long pointed look at - <em>yes</em>, no I saw that right.<em> At my mouth</em>.</p><p>Hang on - <strong>wait</strong> - <strong>no</strong>, <em>hold the fuck up</em>. Could he actually want to kiss me?</p><p>At some point while he was struggling to turn away, my brain said fuck it. He had had over a fourth of a flask of moonshine, no picnic for anyone but especially someone who doesnt drink. He probably wouldnt remember it in the morning anyway. I cupped my hand around the back of his neck and I just did it.</p><p>I would be lying if I said the feel of his soft lips on mine didn't leave me fucking weak, didnt make me want more, especially when he didnt openly shove me away. But I reminded myself that a drunk person couldn't give consent, and this was as much as I was willing to take from him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0055"><h2>55. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Very mild dubcon. Kyle’s 100% into this and Stan is too even though they’re intoxicated and have a lot of feelings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’m not gay.</p><p>I’m not gay, just drunk.</p><p>I’m not gay.</p><p>
  <em>I’m not...</em>
</p><p>This is <strong>Stan </strong>. I <em>shouldn’t</em> want... I <strong>can’t</strong> want this.</p><p>But when his hand slides around my neck, taking my weight and pulling me up into him so that my other hand hovers just over his hair all I can do is <em>want</em>.</p><p>His lips are rough, chapped from dehydration but it doesn’t matter. They press into mine softly, his fingers curling up into my hair gently. I feel tears hit my face and then he’s starting to pull back.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <em>Don’t stop...</em></span></p><p>“<strong><em>Please.</em></strong>..”</p><p>I fucking <em>keen</em> at him. If I weren’t drunk I’d be mortified, but with my head hazy, it was easy to pull him back in by the hand now fisted in his hair and kiss him back.</p><p>Kissing Stan was nothing like kissing any of the girls I’d made out with, or that time Kenny got dared to kiss me and did it.</p><p>No, this was... <em>intense?</em> My heartbeat thrummed in my ears and my chest burned with the lack of oxygen.</p><p>Somewhere in my drunken haze I must have pulled my legs around to straddle him because there was a hand brushing my hip, sliding to my back, pressing chest to chest. </p><p>I felt my packer shift in my shorts and I laughed into his mouth at how we must look. Just two horny teenagers...</p><p>Only, this doesn’t feel like that. I <em>want</em> - what <em>do</em> I even want - yeah, but it feels good being this close to him. </p><p>I pull back, lightheaded and giddy and bury my face in his neck. I don’t think he’s crying anymore, but Stan is too quiet, except for his ragged breathing. </p><p>“Fuck, dude... that was - <em>fuck...</em>”</p><p>I’m breathless and laughing into his flushed neck and I only just control the impulse to lick the skin there. </p><p>“It was good.” </p><p>I whisper into his neck, suddenly being hit by the reality of what we had just done. Even through the alcohol, anxiety bubbled up in me and I let out another laugh, somewhat hysterical this time. </p><p>I shouldn’t have wanted that. I shouldn’t have liked it. Not with another guy. Especially not with Stan. </p><p>He was sweet and smart and soft and... and he deserved better. Besides, he liked girls. Yeah, he had this <em>thing</em> for me that I’d started noticing, but it wasn’t real.</p><p>Right now I was small and soft and feminine, all supple curves instead of toned muscle. Almost no body hair to speak of, artificially lowered voice that cracked often with the effort of keeping it lower. </p><p>In a couple months he wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want <strong><em>me</em></strong>. </p><p>I shouldn’t be disappointed, I shouldn’t already miss the feeling of kissing him, his lips against mine.</p><p>
  <em>I shouldn’t...</em>
</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, why was that kiss so fucking good?</p><p>I heard my voice slightly slurred and echoing in my head. <em><strong>Fuck</strong></em>! I had said that out loud.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0056"><h2>56. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Just as I was pulling back enough to swipe a finger over his cheek and suggest we watch something  on Hulu while consuming our body weight in snacks...</p><p>"<em>Please</em>," he whined, almost begged, and it did me the fuck in.</p><p>Everything I had been intending to do threw itself out the window and set itself on fire on the way down. Wendy? She could fuck off for all I cared. My depression? How the fuck could I be depressed when my best friend literally just begged me not to stop. When he was pulling me back in, fisting a hand in my hair, <em>kissing</em> me. <strong><em>Fuck</em></strong>, kissing me <em>back</em>.</p><p>If I had been any less drunk, the moan I let out would have been mortifying. But I was, and he was moving his body against mine like he wanted me. </p><p>My mind was consumed, all I could feel, smell, taste, was him. I'm not sure if he straddled me of his own accord or if I pulled him on top of me or both, but my hand was snaking up his hip, around his back, noticing the feminine figure he usually tried so hard to hide. Faintly thinking that the only thing - <em>the only thing</em> - that could make this any better would be if his body was the way he wanted it. I briefly imagined what that would be like before feeling my body respond and deciding that thought would probably be better to have alone and not with Kyle on top of me. </p><p>Too soon, way too fucking soon, he was pulling away, putting his head in my neck and... laughing?</p><p>Fuck, yeah but he was definitely laughing. I briefly wonder if I did something wrong.</p><p>"Fuck, dude... that was - <em>fuck</em>..." </p><p>And then he laughs some more? Okay, <em>no</em>, I'm really confused. Did I do something weird? Did I touch him wrong? No he wouldn't be laughing about that. </p><p>"It was good," he whispered into my neck and I just... froze.</p><p>Good... it was <strong>good</strong>... </p><p>His voice echoed in my mind, repeating like a broken record. It was <strong><em>good</em></strong>. </p><p>And I could have broken down into tears again - good tears this time. Regardless of what logic my brain was trying to spit at me about the magnitude of what we had just done, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like I have done something right.</p><p>As stupid and impulsive as that it was, it was good, it was... it was good. <strong><em>I did good</em></strong>.</p><p>"Fuck, why was that so fucking good?" He said it like he was deep in though and his mortified expression after he had said it confirmed that, yes, he hadn't meant to say it.</p><p>I couldn't help it, I laughed - <em>really laughed</em> - I couldn't remember the last time I had. Couldn't remember the last time i had felt so light, so... <em><strong>happy</strong></em>?</p><p>My arms encircled him, crushing him to me in a hug, "I dunno, dude. But it really fucking was."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0057"><h2>57. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’d just barely gotten my breath back when Stan was laughing -<em>really laughing</em> - and crushing it back out of me, face in my hair. </p><p>The sound made my heart skip a beat. This whole thing was giving me emotional whiplash, but the alcohol was making it easier to overlook and just enjoy my best friend’s joy. </p><p>“I dunno, dude. But it really fucking was.”</p><p>His voice is dreamy and the thought that I made him like that is more intoxicating than the moonshine ever was. </p><p>I’m still on his lap, doing my best not to focus on just what is pressing where. Instead, I slip my hands under his jacket and push back. He’s sweating and that can’t be helping his dehydration, but mostly I just want to try something. </p><p>The storm in my brain has subsided and all the fears and doubts file back in where they came from, for now. I don’t want to break contact yet, don’t want things to get awkward, don’t want to lose this feeling yet. </p><p>But he has a girlfriend and we’re drunk and everything’s <em>weird</em>. I don’t trust myself, so I set a limit. One more kiss, maybe two. Above the waist touching only. Snacks and a movie in 10 minutes. </p><p>“Stan, you wanna...” </p><p>I push at his jacket again, sliding it down to his elbows and letting my hands run up his arms, over his shoulders. One slips back into his hair letting the back of his nails gently scrape as I go. The other hand slides around to his chest, thumbing his collarbone through his shirt. </p><p>I want to finish my sentence, want to look up at his face - his mouth - but instead I’m focused on the way my hands look splayed across his chest. Small, but I don’t feel delicate in his grip and the way the muscles jump under my touch, how his breath hitches when I move makes me feel more masculine than less. </p><p>Fuck I want <em>more</em> of this. More of <strong><em>him</em></strong>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0058"><h2>58. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m about to have to change the rating to explicit. Forgive me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He slips his hand under my jacket and as he slides the sleeves down, he trails his hands over my arms. How the <em>fuck</em> can you get turned on from someone touching your arms?</p><p>I don't fucking know, but I manage somehow. "Stan, you <em>wanna</em>..."</p><p>And he doesn't even have to finish his question. Because the answer is '<em><strong>fuck yes</strong></em>!'</p><p>I lean back on my elbows at the same time he tangles his fingers in my hair, letting fingernails scrape against my scalp. I exhale, trying not to moan again, trying not to scare him off. I dont want him to stop, I dont want this to end. His other hand rests on my chest and I just... can't fucking breathe. I lean up enough to finish taking my jacket off, when did it get so goddamned hot in here?</p><p>And the more he fucking looks at me like that, the hotter it fucking gets. When he meets my eyes I feel my will come undone.</p><p>I shift and sit up just enough to grab his collar and look up at him, and when I speak it's in a breathless whisper, "Kiss me. Please..."</p><p>Touch me, hold me, <em>make me yours</em>. Dont make me fucking <em>beg...</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0059"><h2>59. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He sits up a little, grabs my collar and pulls me flush to him, breath ragged already.</p><p>“Kiss me, <em>please...</em>” his voice sounds completely wrecked, fucked out, and I’ve hardly touched him. He wants this, wants <strong><em>me</em></strong>, enough to beg for it.</p><p>“Oh fuck.” I amend my two kisses rule then and there.</p><p>Then I’m shoving him back into the mattress, biting at his abused bottom lip until his mouth opens in a moan.</p><p>My tongue slips in against his, twining them together briefly. For having very little experience I must be doing okay with the way he moans and bucks up against me.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck that’s hot.</em>
</p><p>I roll my hips in spite of myself, groaning in frustration when my packer gets in the way, hinders the friction.</p><p>I pull back enough to kiss along his jaw, down his neck. My tongue swipes over his pulse and it takes everything I have not to bite down, not to suck a bright bruise over his skin, mark him as... <em>shit</em>.</p><p>I abandon that train of thought before it ruins whatever’s happening here in favor of sliding my hands under his shirt and scraping nails up his sides.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0060"><h2>60. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I'm <em>kissing</em> Kyle. I'm, fucking, <em>kissing Kyle Broflovski</em>. My best friend. The guy I've had a crush on for, <em>shit</em>, ever? His tongue is caressing mine, and fuck no one has ever tasted as perfect as him. His touch, his kiss is forceful, needy, and I'm suffocating in the best way. I grope and grasp at every part of him I can reach.</p><p>He rolls his hips against mine. Fuck, <em>fuck <strong>fuck</strong></em>. God I needed him - shit. I feel his lips trail down my neck, leaving the skin burning, craving more. I cant keep his name from escaping my lips. His nails find the skin of my torso and he is digging in and fuck when did he go under my shirt? I arch up into him, making noises I'm sure are going to wake up his mom.</p><p>But I can't help it, I didnt think it was possible to want him more than I already did, and yet here we are.</p><p>Me sprawled out underneath him grabbing both his hands, showing him how to pin me down, and kissing him, always fucking kissing him.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0061"><h2>61. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He pulls at my hands, positioning me so that all my weight is on him, thumbs so close to his throat. Curiosity gets the best of me and I slide one up, pressing gently. I don’t remember how to actually choke someone safely, so it’s more of a caress but he fucking loses it.</p><p>His back arches, mouth open on an aborted shout, hips grinding up almost painfully. His eyes roll back and when he looks at me again, they’re wild and unfocused, pupils blown.</p><p>He’s fucking - <em>beautiful</em>. Prettier than any girl with his head thrown back, dark hair splayed around him like a halo, sweat-slick skin practically glowing.</p><p>“Shh, S-Stan fuck, shh.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0062"><h2>62. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kyle on top of me, restraining me so I have to obey whatever he tells me is a feeling I could easily become addicted to. His full weight on me - though he isnt heavy - is enough to make me shudder with want.</p><p>Without any warning, kyle slides a single thumb over my throat.</p><p>And presses in.</p><p>It isnt much, but it is enough.</p><p>My whole body reacts, staving off a scream - like, an <em>actual</em> fucking scream. I can still breathe, but the threat is there and I want to beg for him to go harder.</p><p>I cant register what's going on between the alcohol and the choking tease, but I must be moaning because Kyle is hovering over me shushing me, "S-stan fuck, shh."</p><p>And all I want is him under me. I pull my wrists from his grasp and grab him by the thighs, hauling us up. His hands instinctively wrap around my neck as I lay him on his back, settling myself between his legs.</p><p>"This okay?" And I mean for my voice to sound concerned, but it just comes out rugged instead. And honestly, I guess either one works right now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0063"><h2>63. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ishush him even though I <em>really</em> want to hear him scream, my name on his lips. but I can’t risk mom coming in. Seeing him writhe under me breaks the last of my resolve. I’m about to ask for more, beg for anything he wants.</p><p>Then he’s pulling free and wrapping his hands around my thighs. Hauling me up so that I had to wrap my arms around him.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, his thumbs press my shorts into my own slick that had been running down my thigh underneath too loose boxers. He had to be able to feel it, but then he was pressing me down into the mattress.</p><p>“Is this okay?” His voice was rough, wrecked but with a hint of concern. Care.</p><p>“Fuck,<em> shit yeah</em>... holy fuck <strong><em>yes</em></strong>.”</p><p>I’m not in control of what I’m saying anymore, I’m pulling him down to kiss me, tugging at the hem of his shirt. I want to see him.</p><p>I’ve seen Stan shirtless before, but I hadn’t been thinking like this. Where I was envious before, I was ravenous now.</p><p>His hips press into mine and I’ve had enough of this fucking packer. I shove a hand in my pants and pull it out from the harness, carelessly tossing it on the floor. I just want to fucking <em>feel</em>when he’s pressed against me. </p><p>Dysphoria be damned.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0064"><h2>64. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I take the hint, tugging my shirt up and over my head, and goddamn does it feel good. Not just the coolness of the air - I hadn't realized how suffocating the fabric was - but also the way Kyle's eyes wildly raked over my chest, hands touching, memorizing every part of me, and I wanted to do the same to him, but that would have to wait.</p><p>My lips are on his, his desire making me want him even more. I let out another moan, my hips rocking forward of their own accord. It was difficult for me to feel anything through denim, and apparently it was hard for him to feel anything with his packer, because he was yanking it out and tossing it aside. And <em>fuck</em> why was that a turn on?</p><p>Curiosity got the best of me, and I pressed into him again, eliciting noises from him that made me see fucking stars. I'd never tell him this but fuck if it didnt feel a hundred times better like this. Head dizzy with need, I grabbed him by his thighs, pulling him closer, mindlessly licking his slick from my fingers, then realizing what I had actually done when the taste hit my tongue.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0065"><h2>65. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>It feels so much fucking better like this and I moan loud enough that I’m worried Stan will shush <strong>me </strong>this time. But he’s pressing into me, grinding down, and fuck...</p><p>He pulls me close and his fingers press into the wet patch. I catch the glint of moisture on them as he pulls his hand away and - <strong><em>oh fuck</em></strong> - he fucking <em>licks</em> it away, eyes rolling back.</p><p>“Stan, <em>fuck</em>... we should-haa, we should probably sto- <em>oh fuck</em>! Nevermind, <em>shit, <strong>please.</strong></em>”</p><p>His rhythm picks up then and I realize that if we keep going, if he <em>keeps</em> rutting against me like this, I’m going to <em>fucking come</em> from dry humping my best friend.</p><p>I cling to him, nails scraping down his back hard enough to draw blood and I vaguely think of how he’ll hide that in the locker room. His breath on my neck is driving me crazy and I finally shove his head down to where the hoodie is almost sliding off my shoulder with a breathless “it’s okay - if you leave a mark - just <em>stop fucking teasing</em> Stan.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0066"><h2>66. Chapter 66</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I literally have to bite the fabric of Kyle's hoodie to keep from screaming as he claws at my back, no doubt drawing blood. But fuck if the pain didn't fade immediately into pleasure. I made a noise even Kyle's hoodie couldn't stifle.</p><p>I did know one thing though, if Kyle didnt come soon, I was going to have to lose these pants because this shit was starting to hurt.</p><p>I stifled a moan with Kyle's hoodie - my hoodie, I realized somewhat dizzily. And he grabs me by the back of my head and shoves my face into a bare part of his neck. With a tone so needy it makes me weak, he breathes, "its okay- if you leave a mark - just stop fucking teasing Stan."</p><p>And it would be so easy to follow his command, to bite into that supple, inviting flesh. But a rebellious streak bubbles up in me, and instead, I'm rasping back, "Only if you choke me again. For real this time."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0067"><h2>67. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The sounds he makes have me right on the edge and I’m torn between following that feeling or hoping for more. He buries his face in my hoodie again and I decide on more. <em>Everything.</em> <strong><em>Anything</em></strong>.</p><p>I try not to think about what everything means or if I really do want that, because I’m not ready for the answer. Not ready for <em>feelings</em>. But it’s Stan so it’s okay.</p><p>I’m begging him to touch me more, to mark me. I need it. But instead of giving in he fucking smirks -<strong>smirks</strong> at me and rasps out</p><p>“Only if you choke me again. For real this time.”</p><p>I want to, God do I want to. But what if I hurt him? What if he passes out? I know it’s stupid. I probably couldn’t hurt him if I tried. But the fear is enough to sober me up a little.</p><p>“D-dude, I <strong><em>can’t</em></strong>. What if I do it wrong and crush your windpipe or something.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0068"><h2>68. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I sit up, take his hand and set it on my chest. I'm torn between thinking the fear in his eyes is adorable, and wanting to comfort him. What I don’t want, is to take it back. I want him to push his limits and try things he wouldn’t  normally. I wanted him to be comfortable with it because he <em>trusted me</em>, because he felt safe. </p><p>I cup his cheek, say gently, "Shh, I can show you, you wont hurt me. <em>Promise</em>. But if you don't want to, no pressure."</p><p>I sat back, letting him think it over, "Either way, would it make you uncomfortable if I took these off?" I hooked a finger through a belt loop and lifted. "I can't sleep in them anyway."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0069"><h2>69. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I don’t know how to respond to his first request, but I know I want to see more of Stan, so I answer that first.</p><p>“G-go for it.”</p><p><em>Well done</em> Broflovski, how articulate.</p><p>Instead of staring at him, waiting to see how naked he’s getting, I grab his discarded shirt and slip my arms out of the sleeves of my hoodie. It’s too hot. And the idea of wearing his clothes while he’s practically naked is hotter than it should be.</p><p>I rip the sweatshirt off before I can change my mind about letting him see me, even briefly, and slip his tshirt over my head, pulling it down. It’s baggy on me, but thin, and I feel self conscious until I catch the look on his face.</p><p>Coming back to his request, I’m <em>scared</em> to hurt him, but he says that I won’t. Not that I can’t, and somehow that makes the difference. And if I trusted him to see me shirtless, then I could trust him to show me what he likes.</p><p>“How - how do you want to...”</p><p>I hold up my hands in an exaggerated chokehold and a nervous snort force’s it’s way out through my nose.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0070"><h2>70. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I practically leaped to my feet, undoing my pants and stripping down to just my boxers, feeling weirdly vulnerable being next to naked in front of him. It had never mattered before, but this felt different. This felt like if he didnt like what he saw there would be no chance. I worried my lip, turning around just in time to see him slip my shirt on over his topless form.</p><p>I tried my best to suppress a smile. As weird as it was, I <em>loved</em> seeing Kyle in my clothes.  </p><p>"How-how do you want to..." and he dramatically holds up both hands to his neck and laughs nervously.</p><p>Aside from being weirdly hot, watching him choke himself, I realized I was really going to have to show him from the ground up. I sat in front of him, debating the best way to do this.</p><p>"No, well you <em>can</em> do it with two hands, but one works just as well."</p><p>I leaned forward, close enough that our foreheads were almost touching and I could feel his hot breath. I -gently, without any force - put my hand around his neck, showing him by touch the two safe points. "You go here... and here. And then you... " I pulled my hand away to show him. "Push in, like that. Start slow and work up and you wont hurt me... but Kyle," my voice dropped to almost a whisper,"I'm giving you <em>an out</em>. If you dont want to do this, dont do it."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0071"><h2>71. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Fuck he’s gorgeous.</em> I don’t get to spend long just looking because I say something about the choking and he launches into a gentle explanation.</p><p>His hand presses into my throat softly and I think I might understand the appeal. The rush makes me shiver.</p><p>“...but Kyle, I’m giving you <em>an out</em>. If you don’t want to do this, don’t do it.”</p><p>His voice is soft, quiet and something in his tone makes me swallow hard.</p><p>I bring my hand up to his throat in reply, carefully placing my fingers how he showed me and then looking up at him, feeling more vulnerable than I had when he gave me my shot or when I changed in front of him. This is somehow more intimate than anything else we’ve done tonight.</p><p>“Is this okay?”</p><p>I bite my lip and suck it into my mouth, partly out of nervousness and partly because his eyes are focused there. I’m starting to sober a bit, from the alcohol, but being his center, his sole focus has nearly the same effect.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0072"><h2>72. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At the feel of Kyle's hands on my neck, a shiver runs down my spine. '<em>Oh</em>,' I think, 'He's really doing this.'</p><p>And somehow that fact was even hotter than his hand being around my throat. He gives me this look, questioning, trusting.</p><p>And I come undone. I put my hand on the hand that is resting at our feet, tangle my fingers with his.</p><p>"It's <em>perfect</em> Kyle," and I'm not just talking about his hand on my throat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0073"><h2>73. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He takes my hand and the look in his eyes is one of adoration. Unmistakable. My throat goes suddenly dry and I lick my lips.</p><p>“It’s <em>perfect</em> Kyle” he says and I feel that ache in my chest again. The one that makes me go all soft.</p><p>I press a kiss to his forehead, and then push in just the slightest bit with the hand on his throat, testing. When that’s okay, I go a bit harder.</p><p>I feel <strong><em>wanted</em></strong> by him in a way I hadn’t realized I wanted before now. I should be focusing on what I was doing, enjoying touching him, and I was, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How <em>good</em> that look made me feel, the way his praise made me melt, how he came undone any time I took charge.</p><p>
  <em>He was right.</em>
</p><p>“It’s <strong><em>perfect</em></strong>” I echoed. Not really meaning to speak aloud but not bothered that I had.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0074"><h2>74. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At the first pressure, I gasp. I didnt realize pressure could be so feather light. I look at him again, letting him know it's okay to go on.</p><p>He goes a little harder, a faint moan escaping my throat. "Its perfect," he breathed and even though he was putting barely any force behind it, I was kissing him again.</p><p>
  <em><strong>Fuck</strong> I loved this boy.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0075"><h2>75. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s kissing me again, little mewls breaking past his lips as I slowly increase pressure. I untangle our hands and I think I feel him whimper into my mouth.</p><p>Not breaking contact, I kneel up and guide him so he won’t fall off the bed. Then I press in more firmly, letting my other hand come around back, cradling his head and neck as I guide him back down onto the bed, rumpled blankets sort of framing him.</p><p>I pull back just enough to look at him and, a switch flips. I’m kneeling over him, knee between his thighs, watching his eyes glaze over when I crowd him into the mattress, looming over him in a way I didn’t think I was capable of. He feels smaller this way, almost fragile, and I let my hand behind his head slide away to tenderly -<em>yes, okay</em>, I fucking know - stroke his hair even as I’m choking him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0076"><h2>76. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I dont know what it is about being choked that makes me sub completely out, unable to do anything but pleasure seek. It made everything that much more intense, sounds, sensations... and then there was the rush. Knowing my life was <em>literally</em> in his hand right now, knowing if he wanted to, he could crush my windpipe and end me right here, to be in a position like that and <em>trusting fully</em> that he wouldn't. Trusting that when my life was in his hands, he would make sure nothing happened to me.</p><p>I let every touch awaken my senses even more, the brush of his thumb as he pulled his hand from mine, put it against the back of my head, the way it felt tangling in my hair. The feeling of his sheets cool against my bare back, his - <em>fuck</em> - his knee between my thighs. Pressing flush up against me. Not enough to be painful, but enough so that every time he applied a little more pressure to my neck, and I arched... <strong><em>fuck</em></strong>, if he wasnt careful I was going to come right here.</p><p>I am acutely aware when Kyle's hand leaves the back of my head and I open my eyes. One look at his face, drunk with power, eyes filled with an emotion I dare not name as he brings that hand down to stroke my hair. It's so gentle, such a contrast to what else he is doing, that I cant help it.</p><p>"Kyle," I breathe out, hips involuntarily moving up, seeking friction, and, Jesus I'm <em>right the fuck</em> <strong>there</strong>. "<em>Gonna</em>..." I manage out, between presses, between gasps.</p><p>My sub space is interrupted briefly with the thought that, he still has time to pull away if he wants.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0077"><h2>77. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stan came undone under me. Keening and panting, arching up into my thigh between his, one hand fisted in the sheets hard enough to strain the fibers and the other sliding up the back of my thigh beneath my loose shorts without thought.</p><p>He was the happiest, the most relaxed and open I’d ever seen him and the thought that it was all for <em>me</em>, all <strong><em>because of me</em></strong> was dizzying. It felt like a - a <em>privilege</em> to be able to see him like this, have him put all his trust in me.</p><p>Fuck he’s <em>incredible</em>. He’s <em>perfect</em>. <strong><em>Precious</em></strong>. How had I not noticed before?</p><p>“ Kyle,” he breathes and then he’s grinding up and I know that if I were under him now he would be riding my thigh, falling apart with every touch and I know this has to happen again.</p><p>“<em>Gonna</em>...”</p><p>Oh fuck, yes. <strong>FUCK</strong>! Come for me, come apart for me, just for me. My touch, my body, <em>All for me.</em> </p><p>
  <em>Only for me.</em>
</p><p>“Fuck...just a - hold on for me, ‘Kay?”</p><p>He’s so close, almost desperate for it and I want to let him, want to  him cum just from this, but I’m soaked and throbbing in my boxers and shorts. Too many layers.</p><p>So I take the hand fisted in my sheets and pull it forward, settling it between my legs over my clothes.</p><p>“Stan, <em>touch</em> me. Th-through my underwear but it - the shorts are your choice.”</p><p>My voice shakes a little from the contact, the adrenaline, and what I know I’m about to say next.</p><p>“You don’t fi- come, you don’t come until I do. <em>Alright</em>, Stanley? Nod for me if you understand, <em>okay</em>?”</p><p>Maybe we should have talked about this first, I think vaguely. Does he even <em>have</em> a safe word? But the way his eyes roll back when I give the command tells me this is something he’s into.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0078"><h2>78. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>He tells me to hold on, and for a second I think hes going to make me stop.</p><p>But then - <em>fuck</em>, then he takes my hand and fucking <em>makes me touch him</em>. I bite down on my lip, squirm, anything to keep from calling his name again.</p><p>"Stan, <em>touch</em> me." Even clothed, I can feel how wet he is. And all I can think is "I did that," on repeat.</p><p>"Th-through my underwear," he specifies, "but it - the shorts are your choice." As if that's even a fucking choice.</p><p>"You don't fi-come, you don't come until I do. <em>Alright</em> Stanley?" He uses my full name all the time, but <em>fuck</em> this time it sends chills down my spine. "Nod for me if you understand," all I could do was nod for him, turning all my attention to the hand between his legs.</p><p>I slipped my hand up his shorts, careful not to go one layer further, letting my fingers explore through the fabric, rewarded by a throaty moan. God he was fucking <strong><em>soaked</em></strong>. The whole thing was almost too much.</p><p>I must have been doing fine, but I couldn't help feeling like I'd be doing better if he let me go under every layer. I knew how to finger people, I was good at it. I had basically had training in it. But I'd make this work, the last thing I wanted to do was upset his dysphoria.</p><p>I pressed his clit, rubbing in slow circles, eliciting another needy moan from him, the sound erasing everything I had been thinking as I arched up into him again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0079"><h2>79. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Stan’s hand is hot against me, warming the damp fabric as he rubs his fingers against me through my boxers.</p><p>I jerk and moan when he presses into my clit and rubs small circles. He knows what he’s doing and I feel a pang of jealousy thinking who else he might have touched, but then my hips shift and my boxers ride up until I’m almost exposed and I bite into my lip enough to draw blood.</p><p>I want to tell him to just take it off, touch me for real, press his face down between my legs and tell him to suck. <em>But I...</em> I’m not a girl or a prude - and I don’t actually care about virginity in theory. But I don’t want it to be like this, both half drunk and cheating on his girlfriend.</p><p>I don’t want to <em>ruin us</em>, <strong><em>ruin him</em></strong> like that.</p><p>In spite of my thoughts, heat pools in my belly and my clit throbs under his fingers. I’m not going to last and it doesn’t look like he will either.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em> <strong><em>Stan</em></strong>, that’s it. I’m so fucking <em>close</em>, <strong>shit</strong>.”</p><p>I’m pressing into him, grinding my thigh against him in the process as my legs shake and threaten to buckle. This is better than anything I’ve ever done myself. Better than grinding into a pillow as a teenager, better than the little bullet vibrator I’ve used all of twice.</p><p>He whines under me and it’s my name on his lips that pushes me over the edge. My orgasm hits harder than I thought was actually <em>possible</em> and I shove my face into his shoulder and bite down without thinking, just trying to stifle the almost screaming moan he tears from my throat.</p><p>It takes me a minute to take in what’s happening when I unclench my jaw, absently running my tongue over the fat red droplets of blood that pool where my teeth dug in too hard.</p><p>His breath is heaving under me, we’re pressed completely flush now, and my hand is caught between us, still grabbing him lightly through his underwear, wet and sticky.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Holy shit.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0080"><h2>80. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I know the second he starts to orgasm because he <em>whines</em>, high pitched and feminine in a way he would never ordinarily. The sound hits my ears, sending heat pooling into the pit of my stomach.</p><p>All at once, his face is in my shoulder biting down so hard I feel the skin break, and his hand wraps around me through my underwear, stroking, and I <em>can’t fucking breathe</em> as my orgasm tears through me. I had had plenty of orgasms before, but they paled in comparison to this one. My head presses back into the pillow, and I have to bite my free hand to muffle my scream. </p><p>It's almost a full minute later when I've recovered enough to really realize what has just happened. Kyle's licking the blood off my shoulder, and the skin is so sensitive that I actually <em>jolt.</em></p><p>I watch as he sits up, drawing away the hand that was still caught between us, a string of it trailing from my boxers to his hand and <em>fuck that was embarrassing</em>. Well there was really no way I was going to be able to wear these now.</p><p>Kyle was still looking at his hand, a look that I couldn't place and the euphoria I felt was quickly replaced with with worry. Was he regretting this?</p><p>On impulse, I reached out a hand and cupped his face, turning him to look at me. "Are you okay?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0081"><h2>81. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’m transfixed by the sight of my hand pulling away from him. I want to lick it clean, taste him, but before I get the chance Stan is cupping my face with his clean hand and directing my gaze to him. I lean into his touch involuntarily.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p><em>Am</em> I okay? Really dude? I just came harder than I ever have in my life and you want to know if I’m okay?</p><p>I’m about to tell him as much when my fucking stomach growls, interrupting the moment. I look down, sheepish, and that’s when I catch sight of the bite mark, still sluggishly bleeding and already starting to bruise a little.</p><p>“Holy shit, are <strong><em>you</em></strong> okay?”</p><p>I reach out and touch just below the bite, then further down, feeling his heartbeat under my shaking fingers. I should probably grab the first aid kit and clean that up, the human mouth is filthy. Besides, I think I’m supposed to be the one taking care of him right now, not the other way around.</p><p>Fuck I think I might have <em>feelings</em> for my best friend.</p><p>I grab him and crush him to me, suddenly feeling like I could cry. He’s so <em>good</em>, so <em>sweet</em>, and I think I might have just seriously fucked up his life.</p><p>Get ahold of yourself Kyle. This isn’t helping anything.</p><p>“I’m fine, I’m okay. <em>Fuck</em>, Stan. You were...”</p><p>I press my nose into the soft skin behind his ear, press my lips there briefly and say “<em>you were perfect</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0082"><h2>82. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Holy shit, are <em>you</em> okay?"</p><p>And he touches the tender skin where he bit, and I flinched again. It wasn't too bad. I'd say I've had worse, but well... Kyle is the only person who has ever been rough with me like that. Well, without convincing. </p><p>So I hadn't actually had worse, but I wouldnt have asked for it any other way.</p><p>His hand rested on my heart and I think that was the moment I knew everything was going to be okay. Because that look in his eye, right there, that was unmistakable. He had caught feelings for me, too.</p><p>It hit me with such startling relief that my breath hitched. I put my hand over his. All he had to do was come to me about it, I had given Wendy more chances than she deserved anyway. Knowing Kyle, that would take a while, but he was worth the wait. </p><p>Suddenly, he was pulling me up, crushing me against him, and my arms circled around him, hanging on just as tight. </p><p>"I'm fine, I'm okay. <em>Fuck</em>, Stan. You were..." </p><p>He was breathless, and I had to tell my hormones to fuck off as he pressed his lips on the skin behind my ear. "<em>You were perfect.</em>"</p><p>And I hug him so tight I'm vaguely worried his ribs will break. Shit, he was the fucking perfect one. </p><p>"Are you <em>kidding</em> me?" I chuckled. "Are you sure you've never done that before?"</p><p>I let him go just enough to grab the box of crackers and shove them at him. I hadn't forgotten how loudly his stomach had protested just a second ago.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0083"><h2>83. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“You <em>know</em> I haven’t, Stan.”</p><p>I’m smiling when I say it. He hands me crackerswith what I hope is his clean hand and I realize we’re both kind of <em>gross</em>.</p><p>“We should probably...” I pull back enough to gesture to our lower halves and my sticky hand. “Wash up first. And find you something to sleep in.”</p><p>I laugh this time, standing and pulling him with me to the bathroom. I slide open the shower and turn the hot tap twice as far as the cold. Stan likes to boil.</p><p>Turning back to him, I bring my hands to the waistband of his boxers and tug a little, asking permission to remove them.</p><p>“You go first while I brush my teeth and stuff.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0084"><h2>84. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He tugs at the band of my boxers in a silent question, 'Can I take these off?' And despite how many times he has seen me butt ass naked in the past, despite what we just did, I feel <em>nervous</em>. </p><p>"You go first while I brush my teeth and stuff." He had a point, and I meant to say yes, I opened my mouth to say yes, and then nothing came out.</p><p>For some reason it felt different now. Okay, well not <em>some</em> reason - a <strong><em>definite</em></strong> reason. He had never offered to take my clothes off before.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0085"><h2>85. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You can turn around if you want. Or I don’t have to! I- I can go do something else.” </p><p>He looked so nervous, almost uncomfortable and I started to panic a little. Was this a mistake? Did he regret it? Was it just the alcohol? </p><p>I pulled my hands away then, turning to go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0086"><h2>86. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"No, Kyle <em>wait</em>," I grabbed his hand in my clean one, pulled him back to me.</p><p>Catching him in one arm, bringing the hand that was holding him back to my waist band. Why, <em>after everything we had done tonight</em> was this the <strong><em>hardest</em></strong>.</p><p>"I'm sorry, I <strong>do</strong> want you to. More than anything. I just... I just <em>give a shit</em> about what you think about me. I'm not... I mean... the best? <em>Fuck</em>, am I making any sense?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0087"><h2>87. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Are you <strong><em>fucking kidding me</em></strong>, Stan?! You’re <em>gorgeous</em>. You’ve got a football scholarship, you could attract any girl, <em>any person</em>, you could ever want.” </p><p>I slip my fingers under the elastic again and gently slide them down, admiring the vee of his hips, the thin trail of dark hair down from his navel. I’d seen him before, all of him, but not like this. </p><p>I pushed them the rest of the way down and stepped back, up against the counter. His face and neck were flushed, and for a minute I thought he was planning to turn away. </p><p>I hadn’t lied before. Stan was <em><strong>an Adonis</strong></em>. Broad shoulders, strong arms, thick,muscular thighs. A light dusting of dark hair across his skin. </p><p>And that trail, leading down to a thatch of dark curls, framing a thick uncut cock that was still flushed from our earlier activities - he was more of a show-er - and dusky, lightly furred balls. </p><p>I was jealous to be sure. He was <em>perfect </em>in a way that made my chest ache, everything I could never quite be, but now that I let myself feel it there was also intense attraction. </p><p>He shifted under my gaze and the spell seemed to break there. My eyes snapped up to his, face on fire from so openly checking him out. </p><p>“You should - before the water runs out.” My voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat partway through, still struggling to keep my eyes on his face.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0088"><h2>88. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I can’t describe the sensation of being so completely scrutinized by the person I'd had a thing for for so long. Looked up and down, eyes drinking in every part of me. I wanted to be embarrassed, <em>should</em> be. And maybe I was a little bit, just from the way he did it so shamelessly, but mostly I felt... <em>attractive</em>.</p><p>At his mention of the water, my attention snaps fully back to reality, "Right, shit. Yeah."</p><p>I step one foot in, and stop, turning to look back at him over my shoulder. "When you're done brushing your teeth, you should... <strong>um</strong>," I gesture to the shower, "I won't look at you, if you don't want me to, I just... want you to have enough water."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0089"><h2>89. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Uh, yeah...<em>okay</em>. Give me a minute.”</p><p>I wash my hands quickly in lukewarm water and take off out of my room to grab the first aid kit and electric kettle from downstairs.</p><p>I grab two packets of instant cider and two mugs while I’m at it. I drop the kit and cider onto the bed and set up the mugs and kettle on the bathroom counter.</p><p>My hands shake while I brush my teeth. This is really happening! I’m about to be <em>naked</em>, <strong><em>fully naked</em></strong>, with someone! ‘With <strong>Stan</strong>’ my brain supplied.</p><p>Stan. Right. Okay. <strong><em>Naked with Stan</em></strong>.</p><p>It would be okay. He wouldn’t look if I told him not to. I <em>trust</em> him.</p><p>I finish and wipe my mouth on my - fuck, on Stan’s shirt, and take a steadying breath.</p><p>I slide my shorts and boxers off. That part is easy. He’s <strong><em>touched</em></strong> me there, erased the earlier discomfort of my doctors appointment. I pulled his shirt off over my head and crossed my arms. I wasn’t huge, but big enough that it was obvious I had fucking <em>tits</em>, so this was enough to hide the worst of it.</p><p>“Okay, I’m coming in. Oh! Turn the temperature down some. Not everyone wants to be a fucking lobster.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0090"><h2>90. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I heard him leave the bathroom, and yep that's pretty much what I figured the response would be. I'd just have to apologize later and hope for the best.</p><p>I don't usually give much of a shit about my hair, but after getting a glimpse of it in the mirror, roots still drenched with sweat, I figured it probably wouldnt be a bad idea. Except, the only shampoo was Kyle's. Well, fuck it, I'd get him some more if it was that big of a deal.</p><p>By the time I was lathering up, Kyle was back in the bathroom, setting something up. A kettle looking thing? And a couple of packets? I rinsed and when I opened my eyes again, he was stripping his - <em>my</em> - shirt off.</p><p><em><strong>Fuck</strong></em>. I looked away. <em>Totally naked</em>. He was <em><strong>actually</strong></em> doing this. <em>Wow</em>, okay. I guess we were doing this.</p><p>"Okay, I'm coming in," and then he let's out a startled 'oh!' "Turn the temperature down some. Not everyone wants to be a fucking lobster."</p><p>And I quickly did as he instructed, shivering at the loss of heat, my mind just reeling. He stepped in, sliding the door shut and I did the first impulsive thing that came to mind and turned away. <em>Kyle</em>, the same kyle who I had only ever seen naked a handful of times, and who had screamed at me for it every time, the same kyle who had just fucked me with all his clothes on, <strong><em>that</em></strong> Kyle was standing in the shower. <em>With me.</em> And I had to wrap my fucking head around it before he realized something was up and thought he was making me uncomfortable or some other bullshit like that.</p><p>Scratches! The water had stung them when I first stepped in, so I knew they were there.</p><p>"Hey so, weird favor," turning, grateful for the easy excuse not to look at him - not that I cared, I just. I needed to stop. Right now. He hadn't even said anything to me and I was already flustered. "How-how bad are <em>these</em>?" I pointed over my shoulder at the scratches on my back.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0091"><h2>91. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The water was perfect when I stepped in and the steam carried the smell of my shampoo. Stan was going to <em>smell</em> like me. The thought made me happier than it should.</p><p>He was turned, facing the corner, barely in the water. Yeah, I didn’t want him to see my chest, but I wasn’t trying to kick him out of the shower either. I was about to ask if he was okay when his back caught my eye. </p><p><strong><em>Fuck</em></strong>.</p><p>The scratches were welted and angry, flecks of dried blood still stuck there. They would take maybe a week to heal. They looked like they stung, too, and I felt a surge of arousal again at the thought of him being able to feel me, my <strong><em>mark</em></strong> on him for that long. It was...</p><p>“Hey so, weird favor. How-how bad are these?”</p><p>“...<em>enthralling</em>.”</p><p>Wait! <strong><em>Fuck!</em></strong></p><p>I want to bolt from the shower, but instead I groan and lean forward until my forehead is pressing against his back, against the scratches.</p><p>“Just <em>end</em> me.”</p><p>I let one hand snake around his torso, keeping the other arm as a buffer across my chest in case he shifts back.</p><p>“They’re pretty bad.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0092"><h2>92. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Enthralling? That sounded like he had been thinking about something <em>way</em> too hard again. "Just <em>end</em> me," he said, pressing his forehead into my back.</p><p>I was just opening my mouth to tell him nope, sorry, couldn't do that, when his arm slipped around my stomach, and speech escaped me for a second.</p><p>"They're pretty bad." I heard him say.</p><p><em>Great</em>. Now I get to figure out how to hide those from everyone all week. Maybe I should have been irritated or upset, but all I could be was enticed. I'd be wearing the proof of what we did on my back and on my neck for the next week at least. I bit my lip so I wouldnt embarrass myself with a giant smile.</p><p>"Hey," I tapped his arm. "I dunno if I would do that, I haven't soaped up yet, I'm still kind of gross."</p><p>Wait was he going to take that wrong?</p><p>"Don't get me wrong, I like it, just... I know you don't like touching dirty things"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0093"><h2>93. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I-I could <em>help</em>, if you want. Get your back if you do my hair.” </p><p>I take a deep breath to steady myself.</p><p>“You can turn around if you don’t stare. At my chest. I know I looked at you but, today was a lot. At the doctor. Things were... <em><strong>invasive</strong></em>.”</p><p>I shiver in spite of the warm water running over me. My emotions feel scraped raw and as uncomfortable as I feel with my body, as confused as I am about everything, I just want to be close to Stan.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0094"><h2>94. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His words hit me funny, and I think I made a face. I mean yeah, he was attractive as fuck, but <strong><em>damn</em></strong> I wasnt an animal. Before I realized I was doing it, I turned enough to look him in the eyes, "Why would I stare at your chest when I know how <em>uncomfortable</em> it makes you?" </p><p>And he said he wanted me to do his hair, right? I stepped up beside him, cupping one hand behind his neck, the other gently pressing his head back, running my fingers through his thick hair, which we affectionately named his jew 'fro when we were kids. Luckily that name didnt stick. He closed his eyes, and for the first time since he got in with me, he seemed relaxed.</p><p>I rested a hand on his arm as I leaned around him to get the shampoo bottle. Put a bit in the palm of my hand.</p><p>While he seems relaxed, I decide it would be okay to step a little closer for better reach. I was careful not to touch his chest, as I ran my fingers through his hair, lathering it up, scraping nails against his scalp to get it all the way to the roots.</p><p>"<em>This</em> okay?" I asked, a little too aware that my check-ins were probably getting on his nerves. But better to be safe then have him get pissed off at me later.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0095"><h2>95. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I feel guilty for saying anything. I <strong><em>know</em></strong> he’s not like that. I just<em> can’t imagine</em> how someone like Stan could exist. How he could just accept everything I <strong>hate</strong> without seeing me as something I’m not. </p><p>His hands are in my hair then and I glance up, suddenly feeling the weight of the day, the weight of everything fall away athis touch. I sigh when his nails gently scrape my scalp.</p><p>“Stan?”</p><p>When he looks down at me I push up on tiptoe and press a kiss to his mouth. </p><p>“Water is going to get cold soon. I want to clean those.” I stroke across his back with one hand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0096"><h2>96. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His lips are on mine and however briefly is irrelevant.</p><p>"Water is going to get cold soon. I want to clean those."</p><p>I turn so that he has easier access, but my mind is focused on one singularity.</p><p>Kyle just <strong><em>kissed</em></strong> me. Even though everything is over, even though he could just go back to acting like we were best friends and nothing more. <em><strong>He didn't</strong></em>. Hes still treating me like he <em>wants</em> me.</p><p>I dont know whether to laugh or cry or smother him with affection. But I settled on the latter, as soon as we were done here.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0097"><h2>97. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I grab the bar soap and lather it in my hands, then run them over each scratch, washing away the dried blood and making sure everything is clean enough before turning him around to get at the bite.</p><p>“This one will hurt. Sorry.”</p><p>I lather my hands again and massage the soap as gently as I can into the places my teeth broke skin. He squirms but doesn’t push me away, so I decide to soothe him by continuing to wash the rest, spreading lather across his shoulders, down his chest, through the little hairs of his stomach.</p><p>I stop there, not wanting to push things and not sure I can touch him like that and not start things back up again.</p><p>Instead, I step back and wash myself, turning my back to him while I wash the front of me, bending to reach my thighs and legs, not thinking too hard when my ass brushes against him.</p><p>I rinse off, getting the soap out of my hair <em>finally</em> and then step out, pulling him into the spray to do the same.</p><p>I throw a towel around myself and quickly make up the cider, taking it to the table beside my bed and starting to lay out supplies for the places I drew blood.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0098"><h2>98. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I dry my hair and then the rest of me, wrapping the towel around my waist. I find kyle rifling through the first aid kit and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, bury my face in the side of his neck, brush a soft kiss to the skin there.</p><p>"Do you have shorts I can borrow? Or should I just sleep <em>naked</em>?" I was joking, of course. I'd sleep in my jeans before I did that.</p>
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<a name="section0099"><h2>99. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His arms come around my shoulders and I manage not to jump, instead leaning into the touch and tilting my head a bit when he presses a kiss to my throat. I could get used to this.</p><p>“Do you have shorts I can borrow?” His breath on my neck makes me shiver.</p><p>“Or should I just sleep <em>naked</em>?”</p><p>My mouth opens before I register that he’s joking.</p><p>“I don’t think we’d do much sleeping.”</p><p>I can’t take it back, and I’m not sure I want to. I’m confused, conflicted, afraid. But I know I want <em>this</em>, I want <strong><em>him</em></strong>. I think I’ve been fighting it for a while.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0100"><h2>100. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I stop the arousal before it starts. That is not what either of us needed right now. </p><p>I mean. I definitely <em>did</em> want to, and something told me that he wanted it too. And we were still in towels, it’d be <em>easy</em> to...</p><p>But he had already been through so much today. And we already did way more than I ever meant to. He was already going to struggle with it, I didnt want to make it impossible for him. So instead of responding how I really want to, I turn him around, lifting his chin with a finger.</p><p>"I'd have no problem with that... but I'm not gonna take <strong><em>all</em></strong> your firsts in one night..." there would hopefully be plenty of time for that later.</p>
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<a name="section0101"><h2>101. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I feel myself blush up to my ears. </p><p><em>Fuck I’m hopeless</em>. Because now all I can think about is how much I want to give him <strong>all</strong> of them.</p><p>I untangle myself from him and rummage through the drawers for a pair of shorts that I know is too big on me and a faded black tshirt, just in case. I grab a second pair and a shirt for myself. I throw the shorts at him, then my towel, shoving the shirt over my head as I speak.</p><p>“You <strong>only</strong> get the shorts right now. You need antibiotic ointment on that bite.”</p><p>I <em>think</em> of looking away while he dresses, but I can’t <em>actually</em> make myself do it. I feel a little gross, but even still, I’m unable to stop watching him, drinking him in.</p>
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<a name="section0102"><h2>102. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I catch the shorts and the towel,walking back to the bathroom, hanging up both his and my own, standing in the doorway to dress. As I'm putting on the shorts, I'm slightly impressed with myself for actually remembering to hang up my towel. Usually I forget and just leave them lying on the floor.</p><p>I pad my way out, sitting on his bed and looking through the first aid supplies he had pulled out.</p><p>"All right, doctor. I'm ready when you are."</p>
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<a name="section0103"><h2>103. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“<em>Kinky</em>. Didn’t think you were into that, Stan.”</p><p>It’s an off joke for me, but I’m nervous and giddy and so fucking tired. It’s better than thinking too hard about playing doctor and getting turned on again.</p><p>I sit down beside him and grab a cotton bud and the ointment, applying it liberally and trying very hard not to open my mouth and make things weirder. I want to tell him how well he did, not even flinching at the prodding of such a tender spot.</p><p>Instead, I kiss his cheek and press the shirt into his hands.</p><p>“I guess I over-reacted, huh?” I gesture to all the untouched supplies, gathering them back up to dump on my desk. I take a detour and come back to the bed with the cider.</p><p>“Want some? Or do you just want to sleep?”</p><p>I’m exhausted but afraid to stop, to let the night be over. I don’t want things between us to change.</p><p>And I sort of do.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0104"><h2>104. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I look at the clock on his nightstand. Its approaching 3 in the morning, but if everything goes right we should be able to sleep in tomorrow.</p><p>I look back at him, and he looks so exhausted, and I know for sure I made the right decision telling him not tonight. The last thing I wanted was to make him suffer because I couldn't control myself. But he had gone through all the trouble of bringing the stuff up here, and warm drinks did always help him sleep better...</p><p>"Cider first, but then I do think we should think about hitting the hay."</p><p>I was was already getting up to turn off the light when he settled in next to me. I flipped the switch on the lamp, keeping it on the dimmest setting, the way he liked it this late.</p><p>After shutting off the overhead, I crawled under the covers, and handed him his mug. </p>
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<a name="section0105"><h2>105. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I watched Stan get the room ready without me having to ask and realized he knew <em>exactly</em> how I liked things, my habits. He had been taking it all in for years and committing it to memory. Why did that feel so <em>weird</em>? But so good, too.</p><p>“Thank you.” </p><p>And I mean for more than just turning out the light or giving me my mug. He turned a traumatic afternoon into probably the best night of my life. I had no idea how to show him, thank him properly, so for now this would have to do.</p><p>I shift closer until our hips are touching, invading his space in a way I hoped he would appreciate. </p><p>“You’re the <strong><em>best</em></strong>, you know that?”</p>
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<a name="section0106"><h2>106. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He shifted close enough for our sides to touch, and without a second thought I wrapped an arm around him, kissed him.</p><p>"Yeah I know," I responded, straining a little to reach my mug. "But you're a close second."</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>The sun was way too<em> fucking bright</em> for it to be my room. And there was way too much pressure on my chest for me to be alone. My first thought was that maybe I had fallen asleep at Wendy's again, but that wasn't right. I blinked my eyes open, rubbing the blurriness away.</p><p>Was instantly met with the sight of Kyle laying on my chest, arm wrapped around me.</p><p>
  <strong>What the fuck.</strong>
</p><p>Just.</p><p>Last night - <strong><em>wait</em></strong>.</p><p>That <em>wasn't</em> a fucking dream?</p><p>Hold the fuck up.</p><p>Me and Kyle. We just -<em> we actually</em> - we...</p><p>I feel light headed. I feel like I might pass out. I struggle to keep my breathing even, my noises of disbelief contained, even though internally I was a whirlwind of never-ending what the fucks.</p><p>I just fucked my best friend.<em> Oh god</em>. What - I- <em>Wendy</em>...</p><p>The memories were slowly rushing back: him whispering, telling me it was perfect. His hand on my chest, and that look - that fucking <em><strong>look</strong></em>. Like I was his fucking world.</p><p>I didn't imagine it. I - was -</p><p>
  <em>Don't cry.</em>
</p><p>The thing that I had wanted to happen for so. Fucking. Long. It actually happened.</p><p>Did I feel guilty for cheating on Wendy? Fuck yes. Did I give a shit? Really, truly? Not at all. He shifted, nose crinkling cutely, and fuck. No I really didn't give a shit.</p><p>Goddamn I loved this boy. No, really, <strong><em>really</em></strong> loved him.</p><p>I finally let the feelings I had been keeping heavily guarded out. And Jesus, I loved him so much it fucking <strong><em>hurt</em></strong>. I didn't know feeling like this was possible. Ho, theres no way he was going to feel the same way. That's just great.</p><p>Kyle shifted again, made a little noise and my attention turned toward him. Would it be weird if I stroked his cheek? Would it be weird if I kissed him? <em>Probably</em>.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0107"><h2>107. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The first thing I was aware of waking up was how warm I was. Not overheating, just warm even though the house was normally always cold. Then the headache came crashing in and I groaned, burying my face in- <em>wait</em>.</p><p>Not a pillow.</p><p>A <em>person</em>.</p><p>I opened my eyes and immediately shut them against the light, groaning again. I was sleeping on <strong><em>Stan</em></strong>?</p><p>I rolled off him and buried my head under the covers so I could think. We had been drunk. Well <em>I</em> had been drunk. And brave. I couldn’t remember all the details, but I know what happened... more or less. </p><p>I should be freaking out. And I kind of was? I mean, I’d essentially fucked my best friend. My <strong>straight? <em>Taken? </em></strong><em>Best friend.</em> And it was fucking <strong><em>incredible</em></strong>. That I do remember clearly. So <em>yeah</em>, I was freaked out a little. </p><p>But mostly I just needed the headache to stop and the room to stop spinning every time Stan made the bed move.</p><p>Instinctively, I moved closer, pressing my forehead to his bicep. Was it weird? <em>Probably</em>. But the pressure felt nice and even with all the stress and confusion I was starting to feel, he was soothing.</p>
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<a name="section0108"><h2>108. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kyle tossed and turned, and I just let him. From the way he blinked and then flinched away from the light I knew he had a hangover. Probably a pretty massive one judging from the amount of alcohol he consumed. Well, the severity was his fault. I had tried to get him to eat and drink several times and he had refused. But I did sympathize regardless.</p><p>Hangover headaches were no fun. Hence why I usually paired my drinks with aspirin. Should I? Not a chance in hell. But then I'd grown ever less concerned with my physical well being over the years. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone.</p><p>I turned on my side to face him, and he pressed his head against my bicep. I felt - fuck were those seriously butterflies? What ever happened to the urge to puke when my crush did something sweet to me? I mean, it's way more gross, but at least it left me with a shred of goddamn dignity.</p><p>To save my -admittedly internal - pride, I turned my focus to Kyle, who was pressing his head ever more steadily into the muscle. "You need to drink some water... and I have aspirin if you need it."</p>
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<a name="section0109"><h2>109. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Tylenol. Aspirin makes me puke. And yes I fucking know it’s bad for your liver to mix them with alcohol...”</p><p>I don’t mean to snap, I rarely <strong>intend</strong> to. Especially with Stan. I should probably eat, but nothing sounds even remotely good and I just want to go back to sleep until I feel like a human again.</p><p>My thoughts race trying to figure out how to amend that, make it sound better. I don’t want him to think it’s because of last night. I still don’t know what to do about it, how to feel, how to talk about it. But i don’t regret it yet. I don’t think I will.</p><p>Even if it did bring out so much weirdness. Feelings I didn’t know I had and would probably have been fine without. But they’re here now. It isn’t Stan’s fault. I think I started it?</p><p>He’s liked me for years apparently. He wouldn’t make a move if I hadn’t made it clear that I wanted it. And last night, I <em>did</em>. I wanted him so fucking badly. But today I don’t know <strong><em>what</em></strong> I want. I want my best friend to make me feel better.</p><p>But I think I might still want the rest?</p><p>He’s still with Wendy though. Is he going to tell her? Leave? Wait for me to figure out my shit? Is that fair to ask? My head throbs and I have to just <em>Stop</em>. <em>Fucking</em>. <em>Thinking</em>.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0110"><h2>110. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Better than nothing," I assured, unfazed by his tone. I was pretty much used to it at this point and if he hadn't been back to his old self this morning, I think I would have had a heart attack.</p><p>I got off the bed as gently as I could, careful not to touch or move him and made my way to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, knowing he kept a stash of tylenol in there. I didn't carry any on me, or I'd have just given him some of mine.</p><p>I opened the bottle and shook out a couple, taking them over to him.</p><p>"Do you care if the water's from the bottle I opened last night?"</p>
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<a name="section0111"><h2>111. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“It’s fine. Thanks, Stan.”</p><p>I tried to soften my tone, taking the pills and the slightly stale tasting water. I gulped down the rest and tried to ignore how it sloshed in my stomach and the way my heart sped up at the half smile he gave me in return.</p><p>Fuck, I think I actually <em>really</em> like him.</p><p>My stomach flips and churns. I swallow hard and try to stop thinking so hard. Everything is so fucking complicated and <strong><em>why the fuck</em> </strong>do I have butterflies on top of a hangover?</p><p>He’s taking care of me and it reminds me of the night before. And I have fucking <em>butterflies!</em></p><p>I want him to go. I want him to stay. I don’t know which is stronger, but I’m getting more and more irritated at myself. At the headache. At how I acted when I was drunk. I should have stopped things. He did it too, yeah, but I knew he was cheating and it felt so fucking <em>good?</em></p><p>That <em>I</em> was more important than her. That he wanted me <em>so much</em> he didn’t think. He just gave me everything I asked for.</p>
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<a name="section0112"><h2>112. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I sat beside him, sitting up against the headboard. What I really wanted was to be able to touch him as easily as I had last night. I couldn't get the thought out of my head of just casually wrapping my arms around him, kissing him, treating him like... well, like we were...</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. I still wanted that. I pushed the thought from my mind, shoved down the desire to push that adorable, curly, crimson lock away from his face so I could see those adorable freckles and those adorable green eyes. He was too fucking cute to be real. "Do you need anything else?" I asked instead.</p>
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<a name="section0113"><h2>113. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stan leans over to ask me something, but my eyes catch on the dark bruise over his shoulder. Each tooth mark is deep blue, almost black, the rest various shades of blue and purple and red. There are smudges of dried blood from it getting rubbed open overnight.</p><p>“Holy <em>shit</em> dude. I <strong>did </strong>that?”</p><p>I reach out and trace it before I know what I’m doing. I can <strong><em>feel</em></strong> the tooth indentations, slightly raised.</p><p>I grin in spite of my hangover</p>
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<a name="section0114"><h2>114. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I assume he is talking about where he bit my shoulder, I saw where the bruise was starting to show last night. I tried to kind of contort so i could see it, but the only part i managed to see was the very edge.</p><p>"Uh... <em>yeah</em>. You kinda -" but I was cut short by his fingers grazing my skin. I gasped - it was tender. But my skin responded to his touch, leaving a trail of chill bumps everywhere he trailed his fingers.</p><p>So, what did this mean? He was obviously not afraid to touch me. And if I was being honest, I could get used to this.</p><p>"Y-you kinda..." I continued. "When you, <em>well</em>... ho-how much do remember about last night?"</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0115"><h2>115. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He broke out into goosebumps at my touch and his sudden stutter was kind of... <em>cute</em>?</p><p>“Y-you kinda... When you, <em>well</em>... ho-how much do you remember about last night?”</p><p>I would have laughed at how red his face got if it wouldn’t have hurt my head. But then the words sunk in and <strong>God</strong> were we <strong>really</strong> talking about this? Wait, does he think I was so drunk that I wouldn’t remember any of it? That he <em>assaulted</em> me or something?</p><p>“I wasn’t <strong>that</strong> drunk, dude. You wouldn’t have...<em> you know</em>, if I had been.” I take a breath and try to keep the world from spinning. “I remember it, mot of it. I don’t- I wouldn’t take it back.”</p><p>Suddenly I’m anxious, worried <strong>he</strong> would. Worried he’s feeling guilty. Worried... just worried. </p>
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<a name="section0116"><h2>116. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Relief flooded my chest. He didn't regret it... I didnt realize I was so worried about that until I <em>wasnt</em>.</p><p>"Good! <em>Wait</em>," I took a breath. Calm the fuck down, dude. More calmly, I continued. "Good. I dont regret it either. And I... it would have sucked if you had. But shit, dude. Let's not talk about this right now, you have a hangover and I just woke up."</p>
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<a name="section0117"><h2>117. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><strong><em>Thank you.</em></strong> I wasn’t sure what I’d do if he actually wanted to talk. I curl up under the covers again, but point to a drawer. The bottom one, where I kept pajamas. Mostly too large sweats, anything stan left around, oversized T-shirt’s I was supposed to ‘grow into’ five years ago.</p><p>“Clothes are in there. You have a toothbrush under the sink, blue. Is Waffle House in North Park open?”</p><p><em>My head throbs and okay</em>, that’s enough talking.</p>
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<a name="section0118"><h2>118. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Uh, maybe?" I answered, using that opportunity to grab my phone from the nightstand. Five percent. <em>Dammit</em> I'd forgotten to charge it. "Why did you want to go?"</p><p>I shot a quick, "morning beautiful," to Wendy without thinking. It was a habit I had picked up over the years. I guess it was so ingrained in me that <em>even when I -</em></p><p><strong><em>Oh</em></strong>. There was the guilt. What the fuck was I gonna tell her?</p><p>I got up to brush my teeth. I'd never admit it to him, but pretty much the only time I ever remembered was when he reminded me.</p><p>I slid up to the sink, digging my toothbrush out from the drawer under the sink. I was trying to google if waffle house was open before remembering. Its fucking waffle house, duh its open.</p><p>I stood and set my phone on the counter beside me and was just putting toothpaste on the brush when a buzz vibrated the counter and a text alert popped up. Confused, I popped the toothbrush in my mouth, toothpaste and all and pulled it up.</p><p>It was Wendy: Good morning, Stan. I need to talk to you. As soon as possible.</p><p>Oh... <em>shit</em>. I felt like I was going to vomit. It took everything I had not to, and I didnt even know what I had done yet. Brush your teeth, brush your teeth...</p><p>I managed. Half-assed. Spit, rinsed then immediately picked up my phone to text her back. 'Okay... is everything okay?'</p><p>I stared at my phone for like three hours... okay it was more like thirty seconds, but it felt like three hours. When she didnt immediately message back, I felt the pit in my stomach grow. She had finally realized what a shitty boyfriend I was, she was going to break up with me... and after last night, <strong><em>shit</em></strong>, I couldn't even fight that.</p><p>Finally, I made my way back out to Kyle, who blinked up at me blearily when I hovered in the doorway. He looked like he might have been about to say something, but I beat him to the punch. "So, um... I know this is the worst thing I could possibly do right now, but I... I think I need to go. Like... as soon as I get ready."</p>
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<a name="section0119"><h2>119. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The look on Stan’s face was unmistakable. Guilt, remorse, anxiety, fear. My gut twisted and for a minute I was sure I’d puke. It was hitting him now, the weight of last night. <em>Hard</em>.</p><p>“So, um... I know this is the worst thing I could possibly do right now, but I... I think I need to go. Like... as soon as I get ready.”</p><p>My heart is pounding and I’m not sure how to deal with how devastated he looks. I feel like shit, but instead of snapping at him like I want, telling him he <em>knew</em> he had Wendy, I get up and dig some clothes out of my drawer. Sweats, his that he left. And an old tshirt that was definitely mine.</p><p>“Here. If mom asks, tell her I have a stomach bug.”</p><p>I flop down onto the bed, but keep watching him, debating if I should tell him to stay. Will he be okay on his own? I want to be alone, want to think, but the way his hands are shaking is starting to scare me.</p>
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<a name="section0120"><h2>120. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I expected him to ask why... he was Kyle. He always asked why. And I was every bit ready to tell him, listen to his calm voice of reason tell me that I was overreacting. That I was turning it into a bigger deal than it was. That he didnt, <em>was...</em></p><p>Did he assume this was about last night? I took the clothes he handed me, but I didnt put them on. Instead, I kneeled beside his bed, putting us at eye level. "Kyle..." I started. "Its not about last night, its... just... <em><strong>ugh</strong></em>, here."</p><p>I pulled up me and Wendy's conversation on my phone, held it up to his face.</p>
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<a name="section0121"><h2>121. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em>Fuck</em>, dude. It’s probably just her usual bullshit. You’ll break up and be back together in two weeks.”</p><p>Not that I wanted that for him. Or for me if I’m being honest. I want all this to <strong><em>stop</em></strong>. She doesn’t treat him right. She’s not <strong><em>good enough</em></strong> for someone like Stan.</p><p>‘And <strong><em>you</em></strong> are, Kyle? <strong><em>Really</em></strong>?’</p><p>I’m not. But that isn’t the point. The point is that even though he looks crushed, hopefully this is the last time she does this. </p><p>“Is it really still worth it anyway?”</p><p>Is he just going back to her? I know last night had to mean <em>something</em>. But... this is too much to deal with and the way he’s watching me, so close, our hands brushing from where we’re both holding his phone.</p><p>I don’t want him to go back.</p>
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<a name="section0122"><h2>122. Stan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>"Is it really still worth it anyway?"</p><p> </p><p>Was it? Was she? It wasnt fair to <em>her</em>, that I had <em>feelings</em> for Kyle. I... I wanted better for her. I wanted her to find someone who wasnt <strong><em>so fucked up</em> </strong>he became a recluse for days on end, who forgot to brush his hair, or put on deodorant, or brush his teeth, or eat, or exist. I wanted her to find someone who didnt harbor a secret crush for his long time best friend. Who wouldn't fuck around with said crush first chance he fucking got. I wanted her to find someone to treat her like the princess she was and the queen she would become.</p><p> </p><p>I wanted all those things for her, <em>but...</em></p><p> </p><p>I wanted the <strong><em>comfort</em></strong> and the familiarity of her. I wanted the way she would kiss my tears and brush my hair when I was depressed. I wanted the way she smiled at me when she liked something romantic I had done for her. I wanted her touch, her scent, her... <em>everything.</em></p><p> </p><p>But I... I think that I wanted Kyle <strong>more. </strong>I had been with her so long I couldn't imagine myself without her. But imagining myself <em>with</em> her was nothing compared to imagining myself with Kyle. The mischievous smile that would lead to places I had never been, the passion I had only begun to feel last night magnified tenfold. To be with someone who I actually felt worthy of. All wrapped up in the comfort and familiarity of it. To be held by someone I already trusted with all my heart. <em>Loved...</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Loved.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Would Kyle even be willing to give me that?</p><p> </p><p>I became acutely aware of his hand touching mine, the softness of his touch, his eyes boring into mine. Waiting for an answer. I opened my mouth, but I had no idea what to say.</p><p> </p><p><em>Was</em> she still worth it?</p><p> </p><p>"I-Im not sure..." that wasnt a good enough answer, not even to my ears. "I..."</p><p> </p><p>But how to talk about it without bringing up feelings, or last night? "I mean I... <em>care</em> about her. A lot. I don't want to lose her, but..." I couldn't do this. I couldn't push him into this conversation right now. Not with his hangover, and not when I didnt know whether the conversation was going to end with me heartbroken.</p>
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<a name="section0123"><h2>123. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Watching the wheels turn in his head, I knew he wouldn’t have an answer for me. And the pang of jealousy and disappointment told me I needed to do some thinking. I already <em>knew</em> that, but this made it obvious. I had feelings for <em>Stan</em>. Like I should for girls, like I thought I had for Wendy before.</p><p><br/>Not just because we’re best friends. Because we had that bond already. I just... <strong><em>had feelings.</em></strong></p><p> </p><p>The point where our hands touch burns into my skin, I want to pull away. I want to pull him in. I know what I’m going to do now. Finally.</p><p> </p><p>“I-I’m not sure... I mean I... care about her. A lot. I don’t want to lose her, but...”</p><p> </p><p>I slide my hand up his arm, up his neck, to his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“Call me when you figure it out.” It comes out harsh, and my hand slides to the back of his neck to keep him there. “I-I have things to think about, too. A lot to...sort through. You should go.”</p><p> </p><p>I pull him in then for a brief kiss. Just a soft brush of lips, eyes still half open to watch his face.</p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t a rejection, Stan... <em>give me-</em> I just need some <b>time</b>.”</p>
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<a name="section0124"><h2>124. Stan</h2></a>
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    <p> </p><p> </p><p>"I-I have things to think about, too. A lot to...sort through. You should go."</p><p> </p><p>My heart plummeted. I should have just told him no, that she wasnt still worth it. That I wanted him.</p><p> </p><p>He was looking at me with those eyes, and I did want him. Probably more than he could understand. I wanted to apologize and cry in his lap. I wanted to run away and...</p><p> </p><p>Well. The world didnt really need me anyway.</p><p> </p><p>As if he knew what I was thinking - and <em>probably</em> he did - he pulled me close and brushed his lips against mine. It lingered, at least to me it did. My heart somersaulted and my eyes fluttered shut. I was willing to take whatever he was willing to give. When he pulled away, his face was still so close to mine, his hand still wrapped around the back of my neck.</p><p> </p><p>"This isnt a rejection, Stan... <em>give me</em> - I just need some <strong>time</strong>."</p><p> </p><p>I stood and got dressed, turning away from him so he wouldnt see just how fast my mood turned around. Just like that my heart was hopeful again.</p><p> </p><p>His voice when he said that it wasnt a rejection... I believed him. And he needed time. Obviously, he could still reject me. But, fuck.... he was considering <em>not</em> rejecting me. He was considering. <b>Me</b>. He was really, seriously considering me.</p><p> </p><p>So hard and so thoroughly that he needed <em>time</em> to process. I pushed down my emotions. Crying is not what I needed right now. I needed... I needed to give him time. Space. I needed to figure out what I wanted from him.</p><p> </p><p>We were fucking doing this.</p><p> </p><p>I went back to him, one last time before parting, kneeled beside him in my sweatpants one more time, gathered my bravery, and kissed him one last time, feather light on his lips, then on his forehead. "I will call you. Or you can call me, okay? But next time we talk, I'll have an answer for you. Kay?"</p>
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<a name="section0125"><h2>125. Kyle</h2></a>
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    <p>He kisses me again and I sigh. Why am I <em>like</em> this? Why does that feel so <em>fucking <strong>good</strong></em>?</p><p> </p><p>“I will call you. Or you can call me, Okay? But next time we talk, I’ll have an answer for you. Kay?”</p><p> </p><p>I try to nod, but the motion ends up buried in the covers. “Yeah, now go before you lose your nerve. Cover that.”</p><p> </p><p>I point to my shoulder, mirroring the dark purple bruise.</p>
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<a name="section0126"><h2>126. Stan</h2></a>
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    <p>With one more glance at my phone to remind me wendy was still waiting on me, I stood and headed towards the door. Stopped. I felt like I should say <em>something</em>... but goodbye seemed too... final. Right now.</p><p> </p><p>I scooped up my jacket, and then I had it. One nerdy reference from my arsenal.Kyle was used to them by this point. I turned so he could see me making a show of covering my bruise with my jacket, looked at him, smiled, "<em>As you wish.</em>"</p><p> </p><p>Then I put my hat on and left. I didn't even have to look to know he got the reference.</p>
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<a name="section0127"><h2>127. Kyle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This one has a sort of summary of the week. ———— represents a time jump.</p>
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    <p>Oh my <strong><em>God</em></strong>.</p><p> </p><p>I was tired, nauseous, head still pounding but I couldn’t sleep after that. Watching him cover the mark I left, <em>knowing</em> it would be hidden there. A secret just for us. And then the romantic nerdy quote. Like he was my Westley.</p><p> </p><p><em>Us</em>? I wanted an us. I wanted him to be mine. No use denying it now I was alone with my thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Over the next few days I thought more and more about what I wanted, what I needed, and if we could really work. College was happening soon, we were going to room together. If we dated and broke up, things would be a mess. And I was transitioning. I would be moody anyway. And he didn’t deserve more of that.</p><p> </p><p>Stan isn’t perfect, I <em>know</em> that. But he’s still so <strong><em>fucking</em></strong> close it hurts. He jumps through hoops for anyone he cares about. He <em>loves</em> people in a way I’m envious of. He deserves all that back and then some.</p><p> </p><p>Even so, I <em>want</em> him.</p><p> </p><p>The other night was unlike anything I had ever felt. I thought I would just wait until after hormones, after surgery, everything to fool around or date. But with Stan it was different.</p><p> </p><p>After being violated at the doctor, I felt like I couldn’t be okay again if I tried. But then he stayed with me, helped me through it. And it wasn’t the alcohol that started things. It just let me admit what I <em>wanted</em>, what I <strong><em>felt</em></strong>. Even in this body I wanted him.</p><p> </p><p>More than anyone. I think I might be in love with my best friend.</p><p> </p><p>It’s Thursday night when Ken texts me and says he’s throwing a big Saturday night. Bonfire in the woods at the edge of town. More than just a few of us. Complete with booze and girls and all my friends.</p><p> </p><p>I wait until well after ten deciding what to text Stan. I know we’ll have to talk about things, but I want it to be in person.</p><p> </p><p>Kyle: Hey...</p><p>Kyle: Kenny’s throwing a party Saturday.</p><p>Kyle: Pick me up at 8?</p>
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